THE  INNER  GARDEN 

A  BOOK  OF  VERSE 


HORACE  HOLLEY 


DECORATIONS    BY 
BERTHA  HERBERT  HOLLEY 


BOSTON 

SHERMAN,  FRENCH  &  COMPANY 
1913 


SHERMAN,  FRENCH  &>  COMPANY 
COPYRIGHT,  1913 


TO 

BERTHA  HERBERT  HOLLEY 


372232 


ACKNOWLEDGMENTS 

For  permission  to  use  copy 
righted  poems  in  this  volume,  ac 
knowledgments  are  due  Century 
Company,  New  York  City;  New 
Coffee  Club,  Williamstown,  Mass 
achusetts;  Lawrenceville  School, 
Lawrenceville,  New  Jersey;  Ju 
lian  Park,  Esquire;  Rhythm, 
London;  the  Freewoman,  Lon 
don;  and  the  Manchester  Play 
goer,  Manchester,  England. 


PART  I 


PAGE 

PROPHECY      .....      .....  1 

INVOCATION    ..........  2 

To  THE  GOD  OF  NATURE     ......  3 

TOUCHSTONE  .....      .....  4 

EVOCATIVE        .      .           ..*....  6 

THE    CRY       ..........  7 

"STILL  MUST  THE  SUMMER  HOPE"     ...  8 

THE  LEAVES  .....      .....  10 

DECEMBER      ..........  12 

A  LANDSCAPE  IN  NEW  ENGLAND    ....  14 

THE  STORM    ........     ,.      .  16 

THE  THREE  BIRDS    ........  18 

IN    ITALY      ....      ......  27 

THE  INVITATION       .....      ...  28 

THE  INNER  GARDEN      .......  29 

SUNSET  ON  ARNO     .      .      ......  32 

HOLIDAY  .....      .      .....  34 

PRIMAVERA       .....          ....  35 


CONTENTS 
PART  II 

PAGE 

PRIDE   o'   YOUTH 39 

AD    MUNDUM 40 

CIRCE 41 

OUTCASTS 42 

"On!  WHAT  AM  I?" 43 

To   A   FRIEND 44 

Music        .      .      .      . 45 

"THE  PROUDEST  SOUL"  .......  46 

VALEDICTORY .  47 

POET   ....      .      ...      .      .      .      .  48 

To  W.  A.   G.      .      ...      .      .      .      .      .  50 

SONG  FOR   COMRADES      . 51 

To  A  FRIEND  IN  ABSENCE 52 

ON  A  DAY  OF  SAD  OMEN     ......  53 

To  THE   UNKNOWN   FRIEND 54 

INNOCENCE 55 

LOVE   ........ 56 

THE   FALLEN 58 

"FORGET  THE  GRAVES  OF  HEROES"  ....  59 
THE  LOVELESS     .      ......      .      .60 

VALE       ...... 61 

ON  THE  OCCASION  OF  A  BIRTHDAY  ....  62 

PART  III 

THE  IMMIGRANTS      .     ^     „ 65 

AMERICA   ......     ,. 66 

THE  SPANISH  WAR  SOLDIER 67 


CONTENTS 

PAGE 

A  HARPER  ON  THE  CAMPUS 68 

ON  THE  RETIREMENT  OF  DOCTOR  HEWITT  AND 

PROFESSOR  SPRING 69 

CHATTERTON  IN  ELYSIUM 70 

To  A  YOUNG  GIRL 75 

BEAUTY 76 

MINIATURES 77 

INVOCATION 80 

CASHMERE    LADY 81 

To  HERTHA   ..........  82 

THE  MIRROR .      .  „  83 

THE  SICK   CHILD      .      .      .      .      ...      .  84 

THE  WIFE 85 

THE  LOST  EPIC 86 

THE  LITLE  WORLD  .       .......  87 

PART  IV 

To  THE  UNKNOWN  GOD     ......  91 

INDICTMENT  OF  TIME 92 

EPIGRAM:    INSOMNIA 93 

THE  RESIGNED 94 

GOD-IN-MAN 95 

LUCIFER 96 

THE  STRICKEN  KING 97 

CHRISTI  AMOR 99 

"As  WHEN  FROM  OUT  A  HOME"  ....  100 

MEMORABILIA 101 


CONTENTS 

PAGE 

WAR  AND  PEACE 102 

TIGER 104 

THE  BEGINNING  OF  LAUGHTER      ....  105 

THE  POET 110 

THE  HYPOCRITE Ill 

IDOLATOR       .      . 112 

CRISIS 113 

MASTER     .      .      .      .      . 114 

PROMETHEAN       .      .      .      .      .      .      .      .      .115 

PILGRIMS 116 

FREE  CAPTAINS    .      .....      .      .      .117 

THE  EMPTY  BOWL 119 

THE  MATERIALISTIC  SCIENTIST       ....  122 

IMMORTAL                   . 123 

EPIGRAM 124 

ORTHODOXY    .     '. 125 

ELEGY 126 

THE  RETURN  OF  RELIGION 130 


The  Inner  Garden 


PROPHECY 

LL  verse,  all  music,  artistry 
Of  cunning  hand  and  feeling  heart ; 
All  loveliness,  whate'er  it  be, 
Shows  but  a  hint  and  broken  part 


Of  that  vast  beauty  and  delight 
Which  man  will  know  when  he  is  free, 
When  in  his  soul  the  alien  night 
Folds  up  like  darkness  from  the  sea. 

For  ev'n  in  song  man  still  reveals 
His  ancient  fear,  a  mournful  knell, 
Like  one  who  dreams  of  home,  but  feels 
The  bonds  of  an  old  prison  cell. 


».»«.-..     . 

5>:i 

INVOCATION 

I  WAKE  in  me,  O  Spring,  the  passion 


That   stirs   delight  in   every   sullen 

clod ; 

That  steeds  the  mind  to  ride  the  Milky  Way 
And  makes  the  heart  a  Bethlehem  of  God. 


[2] 


TO  THE  GOD  OF  NATURE 


HEALING  God,  upon  my  throat 
Let  cool  and  joyous  breezes  blow 
That  bear  the  lone,  contented  note 
Of  meadow  rivers  wimpling  low ; 


And  prayers  from  the  solemn  trees 
That  o'er  the  night  their  anthems  roll 
To  hearts  like  mine,  to  fears  like  these, 
From  earth's  unconquerable  soul. 

Let  pleating  rains  make  me  demure 
In  silent  growth  and  healthy  powers 
Like  forest  children,  boldly  pure, — 
Like  sober,  self-sufficient  flowers. 

For  I  would  be  as  they,  and  dwell 
True  son  of  nature,  strong  yet  mild, 
Touched  with  her  universal  spell, 
Her  chosen  priest,  obedient  child. 


[3] 


TOUCHSTONE 

H  !  give  to  him  a  forest  place 
Made     lustrous     with     triumphant 

spring- 

And  mellowed  by  the  sober  grace 
Of  autumn's  pageant  perishing; 

Oh  give  to  him  an  ancient  tree 
By  gossip  wind  and  stream  begirt, 
Whose  druid  speech,  whose  silence,  free 
Too   conscious   spirits   from   their  hurt; 

Give  solitudes  of  noble  days 
That  still  unspoiled  by  sullen  woe, 
Before  his  mild,  prophetic  gaze 
Like  epic  chiefs  in  glory  go, — 

These  give.     His  nature  does  implore 
As  other  men  their  daily  bread, 
For  surely  from  our  common  store 
Such  lives  on  beauty  can  be  fed. 

Oh   surely   they   can   dwell   apart 
From  fiery  pit,  from  blinding  steam, 
To  cherish  with  a  faithful  heart 
Our  lost  felicities  of  dream ; 


[4] 


Who,  grateful  for  the  gifts  of  men 
Shall  render  dearer  gifts   than  those, 
Recovering  from  the  earth  again 
Shy  gods  of  rapture  and  repose. 


[5] 


EVOCATIVE 

H  see!  o'er  yonder  hill  afar, 
Steeped  in  serenest  June, 
The  plaintive  wonder  that's  a  star, 
The  magic   that's   the  moon ; 


Which  throng  the  corners  of  the  night 

With  people  of  dead  years, 
Now  glistening  with  their  shy  delight, 

Now  hidden  by  their  tears. 

We  shall  not  die.     Our  passion  brings 

One  wistful  love  the  more, 
Heaps  magic  on  these  stedfast  things, 

Adds  wonder  to  their  store. 


[6] 


THE  CRY 

'R  hoary  night  a  cry  is  heard, — 
O'er  hoary  night,  more  dark  than 

old,— 
A  cry  that  doth  earth's  passion 

hold: 
The  anguish  of  a  lonely  bird ; 

A  sudden,  thin,  affirighting  cry, 
The  wail  of  some  too-fearful  soul 
Which  writhing  in  her  hopeless  dole 

Sobs  o'er  the  night  against  the  sky; 

A  cry  that  risen  lingers  still, 

Its  single  pulse  including  life. 

It  cleaves  the  darkness  like  a  knife, 
It  cleaves  the  spirit  like  a  chill. 

It   wavers  hollow,   ringing  far 

High  o'er  the  blanket  of  the  night, 
To  mingle  with  celestial  light 

And  greet  the  ruin  of  a  star. 


[7] 


'STILL    MUST    THE    SUMMER    HOPE" 

HE  summer  comes  upon  her  time  of 

cold, 
Yet   in   some   sunny   corner   of   the 

world, — 

A  wall  that  drinks  the  south,  or  stilly  wold, — 
Flaunts  in  her  hair  a  crimson  rose  uncurled. 

She  tricks  her  faded  wardrobe  with  a  flower 
Of  later  blooming,  hidden  from  the  sun ; 
With    fallen   leaves    makes    shift    to   mend   her 

bower 
And  sings  when  her  dear  labor  all  is  done. 

Yet  doth  the  wind  discover  her  in  sleep, — 
The  wind  that  driveth  doom  to  woodland  ways : 
Her  bosom  shivers  and  her  closed  eyes  weep, 
Her  white  hands  grope  i'  the  leaves  and  hide 
her  face. 

All  night  her  sleep  is  haunted  by  a  dream 
Of  thieves  that  steal  the  flower  from  her  hair. 
The    red    dawn    wakes    her    with    its    glaring 

gleam, — 
When  feeling  quick,  her  blossom  is  not  there! 


[8] 


Then  hand  on  heart  that  bursting  it  not  break, 
She  sees  one  petal  ashen  in  the  mold, 
And  crouches  low  and  presses  it  to  cheek: 
Still  must  the  summer  hope  against  the  cold. 


[9] 


THE  LEAVES 

[OPPITY  skip !  the  leaves  are  free, 
Down  the  lane  of  the  world  they  go 
Farther    and    farther    in    wreathy 

blow. 

Hoppity  skip !  but  wait  for  me ! 

Truant  all,  that  left  the  tree, 
Heartless  all,  that  left  him  so. 
Down  the  lane  of  the  world  you  go 
Hoppity  skip!  but  wait  for  me! 

Whirling  and  curling  o'er  lane  and  lea, 
Hoppity  skip!  in  a  huddled  row 
Racing  all  day  the  winds  that  blow, 
Free  at  last!  but  wait  for  me! 

Over  and  over,  mad  with  glee, 
Drunk  in  November's  tawny  glow, 
On  to  the  edge  where  light  is  low — 
Hoppity  skip !  but  wait  for  me ! 

Elfin  leaves,  0  wait  for  me! 
Together  before  the  wind  we  go. 
The  winds  of  the  year  behind  us  blow 
Hoppity  skip  !  untethered,  free ! 


[10] 


On  up  the  titled  world  go  we, 
Over  the  edge  in  the   sun's  last  glow, — 
Over  and  down, — and  Night  below : 
"Take  us  at  last,  the  leaves  and  me!" 


DECEMBER 

IARTH  and  man  are  now  December's ; 

hill  to  valley  yields  the  light 
Of      the      sun's      pathetic      embers 
dropped      from      his      remoter 
flight. 
Who  foresaw  the  magic  changes  winter  flings 

on  lake  and  wood? — 
Grander     rise    the    mountain     ranges,    deeper 

throbs  the  forest  mood, 
Trees   stand  still  with  inward  passion,  waters 

pause  and  hold  their  breath 
In     a    blind,     prophetic     fashion     caught    by 

dreamy  sleep  not  death. 
Nature's   central   spirit  trembles  in   an   agony 

of  rapture 
Which  her  spring-pomp  mild  resembles  but  may 

never  wholly  capture. 
Nay !  nor  birdsong  nor  bright  blossom  nor  the 

mad  delight  of  horses 

Half  reveal  what  through  her  bosom  in  the  mat 
ing  season  courses 
When  in  secret  caverns  mingle  heaven-sire  and 

nature-mother 
And  the  far-most  planets  tingle  with  the  love 

of  each  for  other. 


[12] 


Hence  from  every  dim  horizon  creeps  a  thick 
and  early  eve, — 

'Tis  the  earth's  attempt  to  prison  heaven's  god 
ere  he  can  leave ; 

Hence  the  winter-dream  of  mortals,  melancholy 
while  elate, 

Baffled  just  outside  the  portals  of  the  moated 
house  of  fate ; 

Hence  the  gleam  of  wistful  magic  on  the  turn 
ing  of  the  days, 

Hence  the  courage  more  than  tragic  of  our 
sympathetic  gaze. 


[13] 


A  LANDSCAPE  IN  NEW  ENGLAND 

HE  sudden  lights  of  sunset  fall. 
I  tire,  and  pausing  turn  to  lean 
Upon  a  weather-dampened  wall 
That  bounds,  like  sleep,  the  dreamy 
scene. 

Before  me,  worn,  a  pasture  lies 
And  careless,  truant  breezes  blow 
Puffing,  from  gusty  April  skies 
The  feeble  grasses  as  they  go. 

A  swollen  brook,  half-underground, 
Its  hidden  voice  now  clear,  now  still, 
O'erflows  the  world  with  droning  sound 
Like  elfin  throats  beneath  the  hill. 

To  bearded  hills  the  pasture  runs 
And  orchard-slopes  of  twisted  trees, 
That  warmed  in  vain  by  modern  suns, 
Huddle  in  patient  agonies. 

I  see  a  pillar,  ashen-gray, 
Fallen  upon  the  hillside  lone  .   .  . 
And  yearn,  as  though  my  father  lay 
Beneath  that  unremembered  stone. 

The  mossy  wall  has  chilled  my  hand, 
A  fresh  wind  drives  the  clouds  to  foam ; 
The  day's  dim  embers  light  the  land 
And  light  a  house  no  more  a  home. 
[14] 


The  roof-tree  sags,  the  gables  flare, 
A  locked  door  trembles  to  the  wind; 
The  broken  windows  darkly  stare 
Like  empty  sockets  of  the  blind. 

But  more  than  blind,  old  house,  alas, 
No  inward  being  warms  your  breast 
And  never  foot  those  chambers  pass 
Save  Time's,  the  last,  the  saddest  guest. 

Ah,  more  than  weak  and  blind  and  dark 
Like  hearts  in  failure  and  disgrace, 
You,  full  of  death  and  ruin,  mark 
A  sadder  grave,  that  hold  a  race. 

Beneath  the  gradual  stars  I  wait, 

A  watchman  stationed  in  a  dream. 

My  thoughts,  like  prophets  moved  by  fate, 

Lament   destruction,   then   redeem. 

"O  God !"  within  my  heart  I  cry ; 

"Man  fails,  the  lands  their  harvest  cease, — 

No  lonelier  hill  implores  the  sky, — 

Yet  here  is  beauty,  here  is  peace." 

Here,  from  our  broken  human  mold 
An  austere  spirit  floats  abroad 
And  decks  with  reverent  faith  this  old 
Forgotten  breathing-place  of  God. 

[15] 


THE  STORM 

|ow   wild   the   night!     How   wild   the 

will! 

The  sullen   skies   contract  to  black 
And  all  the  cope  of  heav'n  is  shrill 
With  hurricane  and  thunder-wrack, 

And  o'er  the  scared  and  cowering  lands 
The  reckless  armies  of  the  blast 
Fulfill  ten  thousand  mad  commands 
Before  they  sheathe  the  blade  at  last. 

They  shatter  old,  patrician  trees, 
They  stem  the  torrent  in  its  bed, 
They  plow  the  barren,  tumbled  seas 
And  plant  them  with  the  pallid  dead ; 

They  gather  o'er  our  city  streets 
Where  men  are  huddled  close  in  pain 
And  loose,  from  hidden,  far  retreats, 
The  lightning  and  the  driven  rain. 

They  shake  the  ancient  towers  of  kings, 
They  pause  to  snatch  a  diadem, 
They  rouse  the  anarchy  of  things — 
Only  the  prisoner  smiles  at  them ! 


[16] 


With  wilder  threats,  with  madder  boast 
They  seize  the  underworld's  allies 
And  marshalling  its  fiery  host 
Attack  the  fortress  of  the  skies. 

In  vain  !     In  vain  !     The  gods  awake, 
Girding  themselves  in  mild  alarm, 
And  soon  the  sun's  bright  chariots  break 
The  jealous  league  of  night  and  storm. 

How  fair  the  dawn,  how  calm  the  will! 
The  soul  looks  out  upon  the  day; 
His  pure  and  earnest  passions  thrill 
In  sudden  gladness  to  obey. 


[17] 


THE  THREE  BIRDS 

10    gloomy-dull    the    ancient   wood, 
The  trees  so  close,  so  darkly  stood 
That   sight   nor  hearing   could   de 
clare 

If  sunlight  ever  entered  there. 

It  seemed  as  nature,  long  ago, 

Had  drunk  some  goblet  mixed  in  woe 

And  while  elsewhere  the  world  spun  round 

Here  time  and  effort  lay  aswound. 

In  hidden  caves  and  hollow  trees 

The  gaping  brutes  forebore  to  seize 

The  rabbit,  deer,  or  other  prey 

Which,  weary,  had  not  run  away. 

The  very  brooks  did  dream  along 

JLJke  verses  in  a  shepherd's  song 

And  had  no  will  or  heed  to  go 

Save  always  round,  and  round,  and  slow ; 

But  in  their  thick,  distorted  glass 

No  bright  and  lovely  shapes  could  pass, 

For  in  that  ancient  twilight-place 

The  fairest  vision  lost  its  grace 

In  vain  repose  and  empty  sleep. 

'Twas  merely  slumber  laid  too  deep 

And  merely  darkness  fall'n  too  long 

That  made  of  trees  a  wizard-throng, 

And  in  the  branches  overhead 

Put  bats  and  owls,  a  winged  dread, 

[18] 


And  twisted  every  barren  root 

To  catch,  like  dead  hands,  at  the  foot, 

And  pulled  the  leaves  to  cling  and  drag 

And  hold  the  night  in,  like  a  bag, 

And  made  the  forest  sanctity 

A  portent  and  fatality. 

A  little  bird  there  was,  all  white, 
Oppressed  to  silence  by  the  night, 
That  restless  flew  from  limb  to  limb. 
An  ancient  wonder  leapt  in  him, 
Some  longing  native  to  his  heart 
That  stretched  his  milky  wings  apart 
And  seldom  let  him  droop  his  bill 
In  heedless  slumber,  dull  and  still. 
While  shadow  held  that  wood  in  pawn 
And  blotted  even,  noon  and  dawn, 
Within  his  breast,  close-folded,  lay 
The  joy  of  sweet,  recurrent  day; 
For  gladder  customs  moved  in  him 
And  nature's  spell  could  only  dim 
The  world's  delight  and  lustihood 
In  one  not  born  within  the  wood. 
Yet  thickly  hung  the  dismal  spell! 
How  many  times  (I  could  not  tell) 
The  bird  in  blind  bewilderment 
About  his  leafy  prison  went ; 
But  flew  he  low  or  flew  he  high 
The  cavy  forest  shed  the  sky 

[19] 


And  all  the  beating-  of  his  wings 
Could  not  surmount  those  fragile  things. 
(Water's  more  strong,  by  wizardy, 
Than  man's  determined  masonry.) 
A  pine,  nathless,  whose  aged  growth 
A  little  topped  the  common  sloth, 
Upraised  a  stern,   compelling  crown 
Above  the  twilight,  sifting  down 
(Like  laughter  early  scared  away), 
A  timid,  truant  rill  of  day. 
But  what's  too  small  for  chance  to  use? 
Enchantment  falls  by  its  abuse, 
And  darkness  rolled  from  blackest  night 
Spreads  finest  background  for  a  light ; 
So  hither,  hither,  hither  flew 
The  bird  at  last  and  instant  knew 
The  sun  himself,  the  kindly  sun 
Was  laboring  in  that  flicker  dun, 
Then  to  the  highest  twig-point  sped 
And  poised  to  sing  with  tilted  head. 
Through  lucent  windows  of  the  dawn 
The  sun  was  painting  brook  and  lawn, 
And  like  a  sea-wet  pearl,  there  stirred 
Soft  glimmering  colors  on  the  bird. 
He  sang  a  little,  joyous  hymn 
Of  trilling  echo,  bland  and  dim, 
That  might,  by  its  pure  spirit,  seem 
The  measure  of  a  fairy's  dream, 
Or  serve  to  waken,  without  dread, 
A  baby  smiling  in  his  bed. 
[20] 


For  days  as  many  as  you'd  find 
Of  terrors  in  a  coward's  mind, 
Of   sorrows   in   a   prisoner's  heart, 
No  joyous  song  had  any  part 
Within  that  crushed  and  cabined  place. 
The  hymn  he  sang,  by  beauty's  grace, 
(That  hymn  of  glad,  recovered  things), 
Daring  the  wood's  dumb  wanderings, 
Bore  plaintive  summons  to  arise 
And  join  in  worship  of  the  skies. 
But  all  the  furry  ears  were  closed, 
Nature  still  in  the  forest  dozed 
And  even  echo  sobbed  and  died ; 
But  like  a  love-song  to  a  bride 
She  hears  while  others  heed  it  not, 
The   hymn,   low-throbbing  through   each   spot, 
Struck  quick  excitement  in  one  bird 
And   passed   the   snoring  beasts   unheard, 
Though  here  and  there  a  paw  upraised 
And  eyes  a  moment  stared,  unglazed. 
Now  higher  wheeled  the  healthy   sun, 
For  earth  elsewhere  was  day  begun 
When  like  a  lover  to  his  mate 
This  bird  flew  to  the  other  straight 
And  perched  him  on  the  pine-tree  high. 
He  shone  as  blue  as  burnished  sky, 
And  'twas  a  rare,  a  pleasant  sight, 
The  azure  bird,  the  bird  so  white. 
Kindled  in  that  religious  blue 
Ev'n  daylight  burned  more  rich,  more  new, 
[21] 


Some  strange  and  august  visiting. 
A  prouder  song  had  he  to  sing, — 
The  second  bird, — of  deeper  note 
And  sped  abroad  from  fuller  throat, 
As  when  a  conscious,  vital  power 
Leaps  eager  into  use.     An  hour 
Though  brimmed  with  swift  cascades  of  song, 
For  ecstasy  gave  none  too  long 
Nor  drained  his  effortless,  deep  mirth. 
But  lo,  within  the  forest-girth, 
Through  all  that  lonely  isle  of  night 
Our  joyous  world  of  change  and  light 
Flowed  murmuring  in;  the  ancient  spell 
Like  smoke  rose  heavily  from  the  dell, 
Rose  heavily  close-packed  gloom  and  dread. 
The  huddling  isolation  fled, 
And  as  a  sleeper  opes  his  eye 
That  wold  unlidded  to  the  sky. 
The  trees  exalted  then  their  brows 
And  all  unlocked  their  tangled  boughs, 
The  runnel-brooks  precipitously 
Churned  forward  to  the  stalwart  sea, 
The   caverned  bears   for  hunger  roared, 
Squirrels  their  autumn-wealth  unstored 
And   rabbits,   quickened  from  old  trance, 
Over  the  greensward  leapt  in  dance, 
The  active  spirit  of  the  wood 
Stirring  in  April  lustihood. 
Yet  as  a  dreamer  waked  doth  see 
The  forms  of  lingering  fantasy 
[22] 


And  on  the  world  awhile  will  brood 
To  tally  it  with  inner  mood, 
So  the  sweet  dawn  of  that  delight 
Took  fever  from  the  lapsed  night 
And  day  and  time  seemed  all  too  slow 
Till  each  must  in  his  prison  go 
And  reassume  the  dreary  spell. 

Now  the  brisk  bird  to  silence  fell ; 
His  song  had  driven  gloom  away 
But  could  not  tie  the  ebbing  day; 
The  natural  twilight  of  the  eve 
Made  all  the  woodland  droop  and  grieve, 
And  solemn  silence  fell  on  all 
As  if  the  place  again  were  thrall 
To  endless  night ;  yet  sudden, — lo 
On  mighty  wing  aloft  did  go 
As  lordly  bird  as  e'er  was  seen ! 
His  beak  shone  white,  but  mellow  green 
His  body   and   his   rapid  wings 
(The  color  of  enduring  things). 
No  silence  now,  nor  sluggard  sleep 
This  kingly  bird  could  prisoned  keep 
When  once,  from  his  low  nesting-place 
He  saw  day  fade  from  heaven's  face. 
'Twas  light,  more  light  he  sought,  and  light 
He  dragged  from  the  set  teeth  of  night 
Where  high  the  furrowed  clouds  among 
The   sunset's  golden  flowers  upsprung. 

[23] 


So  brimmed  with  light  as  bowls  with  wine 

He  faced  the  setting  sun,  divine, 

Then  like  a  free,  unlaboring  breeze 

Dropped  flight  among  the  dusky  trees. 

Still,  still  the  pine  upraised  his  head 

But  now,  but  now  in  rueful  dread 

And  expectation   spended  quite, 

The  azure  bird,  the  bird  of  white 

Huddled  in  silence.     What's  so  still 

As  throats  that  once  a  song  did  fill? 

But  hark !     O  forest,  sleep  not  yet ! 

Too  soon  you  grieve,  too  soon  forget, 

And   liken   evening's   natural   dark 

To  hateful  magic. — Forest,  hark ! 

To  the  hushed  wood  the  green  bird  sang, 

And  like  a  victor's  bugle  rang 

Redoubled  echo  near  and  far. 

It  might  have  risen  to  a  star 

And  pierced  the  young  moon's  empty  mask 

Flouting  the  world's  unfinished  task, 

Or  dipping  in  the  roaring  sea 

Have  learned  its   audibility; 

But   whatsoe'er   its  journey's   end, 

(Or  where  the  seas  or  skies  extend), 

The  song,  vibrating  through  the  dell, 

O'erawed  and  banned  the   ancient  spell! 

As  custom  to  his  wont  must  keep, 
Came  night  and  drowned  the  wood  in  sleep, 

[24] 


But  slumber,  settling  o'er  the  trees, 

Showed  no  more  dreary  fantasies 

And  in  the  brooklet's  dimpled  glass 

Henceforth  but  lovely  shapes  could  pass — 

Ev'n  winter,  yellowing  the  leaf, 

Told  no  irremediable  grief — 

For  now,  i'  the  forest's  sunlit  bound 

The  world  of  time  and  change  spun  round 

And  'tis  enchantment's  utter  bane 

When  the  world's   seasons  roll  again. 

All  this  the  singing  birds  had  done 
Who  found,  and  heralded,  the  sun. 

If  in  your  spirit's  hid  expanse, 

O  if  (as  I)  you  knew  the  trance 

Which  like  enchantment  o'er  a  wood 

Prisons  the  soul  in  twilight  mood; 

And  bows,  like  darkly-huddled  trees, 

The  proud,  exultant  ecstasies ; 

And  roils  the  passions'  silver  glass, 

Dwarfing  the  pleasures  as  they  pass ; 

And  drugs  the  thoughts  in  stupor  deep 

Like  the  wood-folk  in  dreary  sleep, 

(As  if  the  spirit  long  ago 

Had   drunk   some   goblet   mixed   in   woe), — 

Then  happy,  happy,  if  (as  I), 

You  put  such  mournful  magic  by 

[25] 


And  raise  at  last  the  painful  spell 
By  Hope's,  Love's,  Faith's  sweet  miracle ! 
These  are  the  soul's  three  singing  birds: 
This,  all  the  meaning  of  my  words. 


[26] 


IN  ITALY 

BEGGAR  slept  among  the  weeds 
And  Hertha  said  to  me: 
"God  loves  the  tare,  if  anywhere, 
In  Italy." 


[87] 


THE  INVITATION 

IWEET,  'tis  morning!  come,  arise, 
Dawn  unpetals  in  the  skies ; 
To  the  garden  quickly  go. 
See,  the  cosmos  to  and  fro 

Nodding  to  the  friendly  East. 

I  have  honey  for  a  feast, 

Milk    and   bread,   with  yellow   wine 

From  the  bland  Italian  vine. 

Here,  where  nature  riots,  we 

Rightly   dare   such   revelry 

As  shall  stir  a  garden-mood 

In  our  sympathetic  blood. 

Hasten,  sweet!  the  heavens  turn 

To  their  dark,  funereal  urn, 

Let  us  greet  the  rapid  hour 

'Neath  the  shedding  of  a  flower, 

And,  like  bees,  take  riches  hence 

For  our  winter's  indigence. 


[28] 


THE  INNER  GARDEN 


TO    L.    H.     B. 

is  enough  to  feel 
The  farthest,  faintest  beat 
Of  life's  invigorating  heart; 
Oh  sweet,  sweet 
To  seize  on  things,  as  all  may,  by  the  five  senses, 
Create  an  inward  world  lovelier,  more  real 
Than  this  cold  counterpart 
Of  plumbless,  void  immenses. 
It  is  enough,  and  leaves  no  more  to  ask 
Creator  or  Destroyer,  Maker,  Changer 

For  in  itself  it  gives  a  godlike  task. 

\ 

The  wind  blows,  the  sea  rises  in  storm; 

People  pass  and  repass,  the  loved,  the  stranger 

Each  with  his  landscape  about  him,  his  mood, 

His  virtue  to  help  or  harm. 

The  cloud 

From  its   own  moment's  personality, 

Its  share  in  our  whole  fellowhood — 

Listen !  it  cries  a  secret  aloud ! 

Thus   attentive,  not   otherwise,  we  learn 
The  use  of  things  we  touch  and  hear  and  see, 
Their  places   in   our  inward  garden-dream 
Enduring  each,  evocative,  complete. 
Thus,  though  the  cloud-form  turn 

[29] 


Into  the  blue  again 

And  every  brotherhood  and  scheme 

Of  sympathetic  men 

Scatter,  destroyed,  undone ; 

Something,  if  only  a  faith,  remains 

Added  to  the  world's  store 

That  never  was  before, 

Worthy,  significant  and  sweet. 

Oh,  'tis  enough  for  one 

To  hail  within  himself  the  faintest  beat 

Of  that  warm,  central  heart ! 

Who  reckons  life  by  passing  joys  and  pains? 

These  are  but  scales  that  jealousy  and  spite 

Hold  to  each  other's  emptiness  of  life ; 

They  own  no  part 

In  man's  innate  capacity  and  might, 

Living   for   life   itself,   whether   'tis   peace   or 

strife, 
Glad  only,  glad  always  for  living! 

While  we  are  still  whole-souled  and  glad 
For  that  small  nature  we  had 
And  fling  no  curse  on  others'   ampler  giving. 
The  powers,  the  gods  can  never  quite  forget 
We  wait  obedient  yet, — 
Never  they  dare  withhold 
Their  fees  of  purple  and  gold. 
Nay,  while  we  wait 

Our  lives  are  senses  needful  to  the  world: 
[30] 


Eyes  which  if  darkened  could  not  be 
God's  witness  to  some  modern  mystery; 
Ears  which  too-closely  furled, 
Voices  too-early  still, 
Could  never  listen  His  prophetic  will 
Or  cry  abroad  His  fate. 


[31] 


SUNSET  ON  ARNO 


HE  sun  has  gathered  o'er  his  face 
A  veil  of  amber  mist 


And  to  his  evening  resting-place 

Leans  slowly,  having  kissed 
Each  snowy  summit  set  with  grace 
In  bays  of  amethyst. 

Slow  twilight  and  calm  river  met 

Like  music  in  the  eyes, 
For  each  exultant  glance  beget 

A  moment's  paradise 
Where  beauty's  Eden  lingers,  yet 

Unbanished  to  the  skies. 

A  changed  world  pleads  for  worship  while 

These  mystic  colors  pass 
That  from  ecstatic  heavens  file 

Like  officers  of  mass, 
The  Arno  a  cathedral  aisle 

Lit  by  memorial  glass. 

All  common  things  of  sky  and  earth 

Seem  moving  to  a  rhyme 
As  if  the  sense  took  finer  worth 

From  vision  more  sublime ; 
The  soul  recalls  a  holy  birth 

In  other  place  or  time. 


[32] 


From  what  far,  secret  mountain-stream 

These  solemn  waters  flow ; 
What  springs  of  disavowed  esteem 

Their  deep  enchantment  throw, — 
Oh  from  what  source  of  ancient  dream 

And  vales  of  long  ago? 

Proud  stream,  with  tribute  beauty  lined, 

Palace  and  cypress  trees, 
Triumphant  down  thy  current  wind 

The  past's  rich  argosies ; 
Such  craft  as  bear  a  willing  mind 

Out  to  infinite  seas. 


[33] 


HOLIDAY 

IAKE  dulling  sleep  away 
Too-anxious  gods  of  labor ! 
We  laugh   to   scorn   your   gifts   of 

calm  repose. 
Bring  rarer  gifts  than  those, — 
The   garland   and   the   tabor ; 
Meadow  and  grove  are  bright  with  holiday ! 

Oh  raise  the  wreathed  pole 

In  ancient,  pagan  fashion; 

Summon  the  piper  and  the  fiddler  round 

To  voice  with  ardent  sound 

Our  deepest,  dumbest  passion, 

Silent  too  long  in  our  devoted  soul. 

What  though  our  bodies  bow 

Or  earthward  droop  our  glances? 

These  are  but  servants  to  our  hearts'  desire, 

Which  catching  secret  fire 

From  songs  and  May-day  dances, 

The  laggard  limbs  with  eager  grace  endow. 

Yea,  every  joy  you  give, 

Each  soul-intoxication, 

Turns  back  the  gathering  tide  of  doubts  and 

fears, 

Restores  our  jubilant  years 
As  by  divine  creation, 

And  frees  the  rhythmic  powers  by  which  we  live. 
[34] 


PRIMAVERA 

bud  whose  joyous  odor  first 

Fills  April  winds  with  wine, 

As   long  in   nature's   heart   'twas 

nursed 
'Twas  longer  nursed  in  mine. 

To  every  passion  of  the  earth 

And  glamour  of  the  spring 
I  give  a  spiritual  birth 

Transmuting   everything. 

The  blush  upon  that  rose  demure, 

Yon  ripple  o'er  the  sea, 
This  proudly  warbling  robin,  sure 

Are  all  but  parts  of  me! 

The  rapture  like  a  warming  fire 

That  makes  the  year  divine, 
Could  only  burn  from  love's  desire — • 

Could  only  burn  from  mine. 

Though  nature  show  her  ancient  bill, 

Boast  loves  of  other  years, 
She  brought  no  spring  to  me,  until 

I  watered  it  with  tears. 

My  heart  has  paid  its  winter,  now 

My  heart  acclaims  its  spring, 
And  life  is  like  a  barren  bough 

Where  sudden  blossoms  cling. 
[35] 


Through  winter-ways  of  grievous  thought, 
Up  darkened  paths  of  doubt, 

My  own,  my  rightful  love  I  sought — 
At  last  I  found  her  out! 

In  drear  indifference  she  passed 
Like  spring  to  prisoned  men. 

I  never  cared ;  I  care  at  last : 
She  will  not  pass  again. 

The  tender  beauty  of  her  face 

I  molded  from  despair ; 
My  sorrow  crowned  her  inward  grace, 

My  faith  made  her  so  fair. 

As  from  a  shining,  golden  bowl 

Men  turn  the  eager  wine, 
I  poured  the  nectar  of  her  soul 

From  this  pure  hope  of  mine. 

From  thence  the  spring  and  she  arise, 
Glad  pilgrims   of  the  earth, 

Who  vainly  ask  among  the  skies 
The  secret  of  their  birth. 

Roll  on,  inexorable  year! 

Take  spring,  take  love  from  me; 
The  heart  that  finds  fulfillment  here 

Requires  eternity. 

[36'] 


PRIDE  0'  YOUTH 

PRAY   thee,   Lord,   when   thou   hast 

mind  to  take  me, 
Bear  me   on   swiftly  through  the 

toothless  days. 
Let  howsoe'er  destruction  seize  and  break  me 
If  but  no  blindness  trip  me  and  amaze. 

Let    me    not    grope    for    Death,    nor    asking, 

mumble 

In  my  wet  beard  the  words  that  fiercer  came ; 
Crush    as    thou  wilt,    and    as    thou    must,    me 

humble — 
But  Lord,  I  pray,  let  no  one  see  my  shame ! 


[39] 


AD  MUNDUM 

|'ERAWE  me  not  with  marshalling  of 

numbers, 
Thy   thousands   perished   woeful   as 

I  deem, 
Who  lived  their  lives  like  dreams  of  one  who 

slumbers, — 
Then  shall  I  add  more  failure  to  their  dream? 

But  I  would  live !  would  live !  and  so  not  be 
A  godlike  force  in  witless  motion  spent, 
An  idle  ripple  on  a  barren  sea 
Or  shadow  flung  across  the  firmament. 


[40] 


CIRCE 

CIRCE-WORLD,"   I   cried,   "who   dost 

beguile 
Youth   to   its   ruin,   age  to  dumb 

despair, 

Dressing  with  fresh  deceit  each  mortal  mile 
To  coil  our  souls  in  thy  delusive  snare; 
Discovered  wanton,  lovely  though  thou  be 
Thy  lust  shall  never  spoil  my  healthy  years 
While  I,  forewarned  life,  can  labor  free, 
Untainted  of  the  world's  degrading  tears." 
But  now,  alas,  the  world  on  every  side 
And  time's   scarred  reign   confirmed  upon  my 

heart, 

The  closer,  sadder  truth  disarms  my  pride — 
This  same  world's  I  and  I  of  it  am  part. 
"Poor    Circe-world,"   I    moan,   "whose   siren 

bane 

Ourselves    do   mix,   do   proffer   and  ...  do 
drain !" 


[41] 


OUTCASTS 

of   the   world   who    shuffle    to    our 

doom, 
Who  dull  with  basest  lead  the  gold 

of  time, 

Despoiling  where  we  may  the  tender  bloom 
Of  all  unworldly  souls  that  rise  sublime ; 
Still  scorning  wisdom  nobler  than  our  use 
And   scourging  pity  bent  on  our  despair, 
Fouling  earth's  seldom  beauty  by  abuse, 
In  rage  at  strength  more  strong,  at  fair  more 

fair; 

We  suffer  pain  with  them  we  hate  and  slay 
And  more  than  they,  as  we  their  death  survive. 
Weep  not  for  them  so  glorious  in  decay, — 
Weep  thou  for  us,  inglorious  and  alive: 

Stricken   ourselves   in   their  destruction,   till 
To  us  that  Life  appear  we  may  not  kill." 


[42] 


"OH!  WHAT  AM  I?" 

H,  what  am  I  that  the  cold  wind  af 
frays, 

Oh,  what  am  I  the  ocean  could  con 
found, 

A  fort  so   open   to   the   rebel  days, 
To  nature's  mutiny  and  human  wound? 
Oh,  what  am  I  so  weak  against  the  world, 
Yea,  weaker  in  my  heart  that  should  be  strong ; 
On  whom  this  double  warfare  is  unfurled, 
Of  outer  violence  first,  then  inward  wrong? 
I  am  a  fair,  a  fleeting  glimpse  of  God 
One  moment  visible  in  mortal  state, 
A  bit  of  heaven  caught  i'  the  prison-clod, 
That  I  nor  nature's  self  may  violate ; 
Ev'n  like  a  jewel  fallen  from  a  crown 
That's    royal    still,    though    fingered    by    a 
clown. 


[43] 


TO  A  FRIEND 

me,  dear  friend,  be  better  than  the 

best, 
Be  not  so  wise  to  taste  before  you 

eat: 

True  love  is  in  its  own  sweet  palate  blest, — 
To  love  alone,  could  such  as  I  be  sweet. 
No,  do  not  as  the  world  which  hating  hate 
And  branding  scorn  on  every  sensual  brow, 
Keeps  them,  like  slaves,  in  fixt,  unbettered  state 
Who  born  to  chains  will  die  as  they  are  now ; 
But  rather  love  when  I  have  least  desert, 
When  I  am  stupid  bid  me  sweetly  stay, 
Smile  on  me  tenderest  when  I  cause  you  hurt 
And  praise  me  most  in  my  most  barren  day. 
So  shall  you  be  as  God,  whose  grace  divine 
Flings  keys  of  heav'n  to  this  poor  world 
of  mine. 


[44] 


MUSIC 

HERE  are  some  who  learn  apart 
Music's  high,  mysterious  art ; 
There  are  some,  of  whom  am  I, 
Minded  in  simplicity, 


That  do  feel  a  rapt  heart-beat 
For  the  singer  in  the  street; 
Whom  a  beggar's  violin 
Seizeth  by  the  soul  within. 


[45] 


"THE  PROUDEST  SOUL" 

|HE    proudest    soul    that    ever    dared 

aspire, 
Though  stuffed  with  all  the  chosen 

fruits  of  power, 
Must  learn  the  barren,  melancholy  hour 
When  spirits  fail  and  aspirations  tire. 
No  man  unto  himself  is  wholly  sire ; 
His  mind  is  subject  to  the  world's  debate. 
So  many  voices  urging,  soon  and  late, 
Perplex  the  vision  like  a  smoky  fire. 
But  ever  faster,  old  age  comes  apace, 
At  last  by  memory  we  stand  accused. 
Our  little  share  of  godliness  misused 
We  seek  the  dread  oblivion  of  the  race. 
O  Father,  come  with  passion  and  with  grace, 
That  so  in  me  Thyself  be  not  abused! 


[46] 


VALEDICTORY 

other  youth  went  joyous  to  the 

chase 
And    gathered   trophies,   laurel    for 

the  brow 

And  praise  from  men  and  maidens  fair  enow 
Who  smile  upon  the  victors  of  the  race; 
I  bided  prizeless  in  this  silent  place 
Companioned  by  the  presence  of  the  dead, 
Dreamed  of  invisible  garlands  for  my  head 
And  approbation  on  a  ghostly  face. 
Call  it  not  pride  or  self-consuming  scorn, — 
I  never  curled  the  lip  at  other  men: 
I  reverence  all  as  brothers, — yet  for  me 
There  is  a  brotherhood,  a  sanctity 
In  Truth  and  Beauty  that  turns  my  feet  again 
To  solitude,  though  lonely  and  forlorn. 


[47] 


POET 

|ou  are  but  one  man  only ;  I,  many 

as  I  would  be. 
I     am    heir    to    all    existence, — to 

every  lover's  joy, 
The  wisdom  of  old  men,  the  lonely  singer's  min 
strelsy, 

The  bannered  ranks  of  heroes  that  give  battle 
and  destroy. 

Oh,   you   are   but   one   man   only;   how   many, 

many  I 
Who  seize  the  lives  I  would  live  as  fish  are  taken 

from  streams 
And  live  them  through  till  I  weary,  kings  or 

saints  in  the  sky, 
Then  throw  them  away  like  masks  and  turn  me 

to  fresher  dreams. 

Whoever  has  lived  I  can  be;  I  show  to  time 

again 
The  spirit,  if  not  the  form,  of  them  he  has  slain 

of  yore. 
Nature,  if  ever  were  lost  the  mold  and  pattern 

of  men, 
Could  break  my  life  into  fragments  and  all  her 

line  restore. 


[48] 


You  are  but  one  man  only;  how  many,  many 

am  I! 
The  world  is  hung  like  a  stage  I  gaze  on  within 

my  breast. 
So  many  lives  I  may  live? — so  many  deaths  I 

must  die, 
So  often  yearn  for  heaven,  so  long  be  denied 

my  rest. 


[49] 


TO  W.  A.  G. 

ow  many  days  of  love  have  slipped 

away, 
Pearls    from    a   necklace    falling   in 

the  sea, 

That  trail  their  lucent  course  to  caverns  gray 
And  lie  through  time  unstrung  for  you  and  me ! 

Let  not  one  spring,  O  friend,  break  overhead 
Her  cloudy  gourd  of  rain  and  sun  and  bloom, 
And  we  not  trip  like  April  from  our  dead, 
Who    spurns,    with   dancing   feet,   her   broken 
tomb. 


[50] 


SONG  FOR  COMRADES 

H  !  let  us  feed  our  hungry  hearts 
And  let  the  world's  need  go, 
No  man  whose  own  desire  departs 
Can  mend  another's  woe. 

For  what's  the  world  but  one  great  heart 
Divided  in  all  men? 
If  each  with  love  contents  his  part, 
How  gay  the  whole  world  then! 


[51] 


TO  A  FRIEND  IN  ABSENCE 


TO    J.    P. 

UR  lives  will  meet,  if  they  meet  at  all, 
Where  low  winds  blow  and  the  dead 

leaves  fall, 

The  old  year,  bent  o'er  the  foun 
tain-brim, 
Asleep  in  an  autumn  interim. 


[52] 


ON  A  DAY  OF  SAD  OMEN 

Y  thoughts   arc   barks   the   wind  has 

blown 
On    desolate,   unhappy   seas 

Which  men  in  dread  have  left  alone 

For  slow,  unholmed  craft  like  these. 

Uncargoed  of  earth's  labored  plan, 
Its  endless  and  consuming  strife, 
They  rest,  unknown  to  mortal  man, 
On  old,  forgotten  wastes  of  life. 

In  tideless  waste  between  the  lands 
Incessant  breezes  lay  the  foam 
And  overcast,  with  pallid  hands, 
The  ancient  tracks  that  pointed  home. 


[53] 


TO  THE  UNKNOWN  FRIEND 

IOST  in  sorrow,  never  dare 
Pray  for  more  and  sterner 

power 

That  unbroken  you  can  bear 
Secret  pang  from  hour  to  hour; 

But  with  holy  passion,  pray 
Heav'n  your  courage  will  deny, 
Send  you  weakness  to  betray 
One  unbosoming,  full  cry! 

Mountain  rock  be  fixed  and  cold 
And  unf athomed  lie  the  wave ; 
Heart  of  mortal  should  not  hold 
Corpse  within  it,  like  the  grave. 


[54] 


INNOCENCE 

SINKING,   midnight   moon   doth 

burn 
Above     the     cloudy,     somber 

pines, 

When  from  my  window-ledge  I  turn 
To  write  these  casual  lines. 

I  weary,  looking  on  the  sky; 
I  sadden,  dreaming  of  the  world, — 
No  star  but  points  in  enmity 
The  pit  where  I  am  hurled. 

In  time  and  space,  where'er  it  seeks, 
My  thought  unbars  no  tranquil  room, 
For  beauty,  once  so  gentle,  speaks 
A  judgment  and  a  doom. 

Yet  on  my  hot,  averted  face 
Like  friendly,  pleading  hands  I  find 
A  calm,  a  reassuring  grace 
From  passive  depths  of  mind. 

The  hopeless  thief  on  Calvary, 
Meeting  the  Saviour's  conscious  eyes 
Might  know  an  inward  sanctity 
The  common  world  denies. 


[55] 


LOVE 

E  do  wrong  to  seek  content 
And   a   changeless,  snug  re 
pose; 
'Twas      for      mortal      never 

meant : 
While  the  spirit  lives,  it  grows. 

When  you  seem  no  longer  strange 
If  I  say  my  love,  my  own, 
In  that  moment  you  do  change 
And  I  stand  afar,  alone. 

Let  us  weave  no  golden  tie! 
We  must  come  and  we  must  go 
Like  the  winged  winds  on  high 
And  the  sea's  unlabored  flow. 

There  is  peril  in  our  love! 
You  and  I,  no  witless  flower, 
To  our  consummation  move 
In  an  idle  summer  hour, — 

Love's  a  bridge  across  the  deep 
Where  the  tempests  maddened  roll 
And  the  tameless  demons  leap 
Lusting  for  the  risen  soul. 

'Tis  the  truce  of  hate  and  wrong 
Which  the  moments  must  renew, 
Which  by  courage  we  prolong 
And  destroying,  render  true. 
[56] 


There  is  peril  in  our  love! 
Like  the  island  wizard's  elf, 
Power  of  spirit  it  must  prove 
O'er  the  Calibans  of  self. 

Fling   thy   banners   high,  Romance, 
Sound  thy  trumpets  loud  and  gay 
For  the  triumph  we  advance, 
For  the  peril  kept  at  bay. 


[57] 


THE  FALLEN 

HOUGH    he    is    fallen,    give    him 

praise 
More    than    to   hosts    of   them 

who  win, 
Who  lived  no  fear-tormented  days 
Nor  nights  that  were  a  war  with  sin. 
Ah,  think !  he  wras  not  good  or  brave 
Yet  tired  at  last,  without  a  cry 
He  sang  his  song  and  dug  his  grave 
And  laid  him  down,  alone,  to  die ' 


[58] 


"FORGET    THE    GRAVES    OF    HEROES" 

ORGET   the  graves   of  heroes   and  no 

more  laurel  give, 
Or   raise   ten   thousand  more   which 

every  day  renew ; 
So  many  lives  are  lived  by  those  too  sick  to  live, 
So  many  deeds  are  done  by  those  too  weak  to  do. 


[59] 


THE  LOVELESS 

E  not  despise,  who  when  the  jocund 

Spring 
With  lusty  passion  brims  the  eager 

clod ; 

Me  not  despise,  who  lone-forgotten  thing, 
Hold  up  an  empty  goblet  to  the  God. 


[60] 


VALE 

Y  joy  returns.     Farewell!     I  go 
Thrilling  to  my  own  sphere  of 

light. 
Weep  not,  nor  stay  in  starry 

flight 
The  arrow  from  Apollo's  bow. 


[61] 


ON  THE   OCCASION  OF  A  BIRTHDAY 

PRAY   Thee,  Lord,   for   some   great 

task  to  do 

Full   worth   the   years   I   wait  be 
neath  the  sky ; 
Like  Solomon,  who  reared  Thy  temple  high, 
Or  Milton,  who  did  the  Muse  of  Sinai  sue. 
Ev'n  this  the  prayer  that  I  most  oft  renew 
Urged  on  by  eager  thoughts  that  in  me  cry, 
Blind  voices,  craving  freedom  lest  they  die, 
At  best  their  years  of  animation  few. 
O  'tis  enough  these  bones  shall  turn  to  dust, 
The  clay  pain  hallowed  in  my  mother's  womb ; 
It  is  enough  that  earth  keep  them  in  tomb 
And  not  that  spirit  which  they  hold  in  trust. 
The  living  soul  to  highest  labor  must 
Or  lie  with  bones  in  unaspiring  doom. 


[62] 


THE  IMMIGRANTS 

JPON  my  ear  a  deep,  unbroken  roar 
Thunders    and    rolls,    as    when    the 

brooding  sea 
Too  long  asleep,  pours  out  upon  the 

shore 

Full  half  her  cohorts,  tramping  audibly. 
Yet  here's  no  rushing  of  exasperate  wind 
Booming  revolt  amid  a  factious  tide, 
Nor  lordly  shock  on  reef  in  ambush  blind 
Of  foaming  waves  that  with  a  sob  subside. 
No !  but  more  fateful  than  the  restless  deep 
Whose  crested  hosts  leap  high  to  sink  again, 
I  hear,  in  solemn  and  portentous  sweep, 
The  slow,  deliberate  marshalling  of  men. 
No  monarch  moves   them,  pawns,  to  win  a 

goal; 
They  felt  life's  fever  rising  in  the  soul. 


[65] 


AMERICA 

|OR  this  I  know  thy  soul  not  yet  has 

broke 
The  teeming  silence  of  her  modern 

sleep : 

Whenas  the  storm  has  slipped  his  windy  yoke, 
Revolving  on,  encompassing  the  deep ; 
Small  gulfs  at  first  and  shallow  inland  seas 
He  hissing  ruffles ;  but  Atlantic  last, 
Long-played  upon,   responds  with  harmonies 
Prophetic-vague,  sublime,  and  tragic-vast. 
So  thou,  the  lordliest  instrument  of  time, 
The  last,  supreme,  gigantic  master-pipe, 
Wilt  loose  titanically  thy  solemn  rhyme, 
Atlantic  thunder,  when  the  hour  is  ripe. 
Thus  from  the  noble  teaching  of  the  sea 
I  arm  my  faith  with  valiant  prophecy. 


[66] 


THE  SPANISH  WAR  SOLDIER 

Statue  by  Bela  L.  Pratt 

JY  such  a  youth,  the  bright,  the  epic 

morn, 
A   flaming   brand,   is    caught   from 

jealous  skies ; 
Earth  leaps  revived.     See,  potent  in  his  eyes, 
Grave  modern  Iliads  eager  to  be  born. 


[67] 


A  HARPER  ON  THE  CAMPUS 

,HE   forms   of  loveliness   the  Argives 

wot 

Still  with  all  men  abide  enduringly 
As  though  our  modern  stupor  could 

not  blot 

From  stifled  hearts  their  passion  utterly, 
But  sometimes  to  this  day  relents  a  jot 
To  stir  old  pride  with  desperate  memory. 

But  soon,  too  soon,  the  hour  of  vision  goes. 
The  booming  measure  sinks  upon  the  din 
Of  lesser  things  as  waters  claim  and  close 
Around  all  sunsets. — Gloomy  shades  begin 
To  stride  upon  a  prostrate  world,  and  woes 
Of  Night  surround  us,  with  the  dread  therein. 


[68] 


ON    THE    RETIREMENT    OF    DOCTOR 
HEWITT  AND  PROFESSOR  SPRING 

Williams  College 

|wo  scholars  go,  and  our  community 
Is  reft  of  beauty  time  may  not  re 
pair. 
The    portico    her    pillars    ill    doth 

spare, 
That  fall  by  night  beside  the  wine-dark  sea. 


[69] 


CHATTERTON  IN  ELYSIUM 

|HE  stricken  past  full  many  a  haven 

built 

Beyond   the   sullen   borders   of  de 
spair 

Where  eager  fancy,  free  from  human  guilt, 
Might  roam  in  bliss.     And  'twas  a  poet's  care 
To  sing  of  happy  field  and  island  fair, 
That  when  a  weary  world  did  covet  rest 
Such  lovely  vision,  like  an  answered  pray'r, 
His   wistful  sorrow  soothed.     Oh,  hearts   were 

blest, 

That  found  so  bright  abode,  low-lying  in  the 
west. 

Though  Time,  the  master-mariner,  whose  sail 
Hath  whitened  every  port  of  sea  and  sky, 
Now  sad  returned  upon  the  droning  gale 
That  old  familiar  vision  would  deny; 
Yet  dreams  reveal  the  soul,  they  never  die, 
And  mourned  Elysium,  fled  beyond  the  pole, 
Is  raised  anew  in  every  human  sigh, 
For  'tis  a  region  of  the  inward  soul 
Which  Time   shall  not   destroy,  nor  the   sick 
world  control. 


[70] 


Oh  boldly  fashion,  with  religious  power, 
The  bounty  of  Elysium;  let  there  be 
(Covert  against  th'  inhospitable  hour), 
A  brighter  heav'n,  a  purer  ecstasy ! 
Thus  men  achieve  celestial  liberty 
Seeking  the  true  Elysium  where  'tis  spread 
Within  the  soul's  remoter  sanctity, 
The  glamour  of  a  garden ;  habited 
By   nobly- joyous   lives    the   world   laments    as 
dead. 

Thither  as  poets  feign,  a  spirit  fled, 
An  eager  being  broken  by  despair, 
To  seek  that  approbation  of  the  dead 
The  living  had  denied  his  haughty  prayer. 
In  grace  he  came  and  solemn  beauty  fair 
That  beamed  through  desolation  as  the  Sun, 
Deep-peering  God,  doth  pierce  the  murky  air 
With  unrepressive  glance.     It  proved  him  one 
The  Muses  richly  dowered  as  they  but  few  have 
done. 

Arrived  before  that  portal  of  repose 
The  panting  soul  in  sudden  terror  stood ; 
Not  as  a  spy  that  slinketh  from  his  foes, 
But  childlike ;  for  a  full  ecstatic  mood 
O'erbrimmed  his  faculties  in  copious  flood. 
The  hope  and  recognition,  long-denied, 


[71] 


Now    pained    by    sheer    abundance.     Low    he 

sighed, 
Then  dared  that  haughty  place,  a  boy,  yet  old 

in  pride. 

As  when  the  poignant  breath  of  spring  doth 

meet 

All  sleeping  nature,  and  the  startled  trees 
Bend  with  their  grateful  boughs  as  if  to  greet 
The  kindly  Goddess ;  movings  faint  like  these, 
Auspicious  mood  of  welcome,  then  did  seize 
The  quiet  of  Elysium.     Slowly  came 
Like  white  clouds  gathered  on  the  flowery  leas 
A  shining  host  with  lofty  gift  of  fame, 
Lured  by  the  faint  aroma  of  his  delicate  name. 

To  tell  their  blessed  names  were  nothing  slight 
Though  joyous  matter  for  a  winter's  day, 
So  many  generations  gave  them  light 
Since  Time  was  born  in  gardens  of  Cathay. 
Our  kings  and  warriors  grave,  our  poets  they, 
Whom  we  vouchsafe  this  jealous  Paradise. 
No  lump  and  portion  of  the  common  clay 
Doth  there  attain,  but,  temperate  and  wise, 
Who  show  the  God-in-man  by  patient  sacrifice. 

Foremost  who  from  the  tedious  darkness  drew 
Most  life  into  the  light  and  use  of  men, 
Shakespeare  and  Homer.     Gravely  sweet  they 
view 

[72] 


The  pallor  of  the  poet.     "Welcome,"  then 

They  utter  kindly  word,  and  smile  again 

The  echo,  "Welcome."— "Woe  to  earth,"  they 

say, 

"That  blotted  from  its  use  a  poet's  brain! 
How  many  idle  years  will  waste  away 
Ere  spirit  so  inform  the  cold,  uneager  clay !" 

i 
Somewhat  aloof,  in  dark  austerity, 

Dante  and  Milton  gaze  upon  the  boy. 
Mayhap,  a  truant  gust  of  memory 
Hath  blown  upon  their  minds, — his  naked  joy 
How   strange    and   lovely ! — Though   the   long 

employ 

Of  God-enquiring  thought  had  tempered  cold 
Their  hearts'  humanity,  the  fond  alloy 
Of  sensuous  love  refined  to  fairest  gold, 
Yet  now  in  gracious  warmth  his  passion  they 

behold. 

Others  approach  with  murmurs  of  applause, 
Fair  gentle  spirits  all,  but  none  so  sweet 
As  lucid  Virgil.     Tenderly  he  draws 
That  lordly  brow  to  lip.     Thus  fathers  greet 
A  favorite  son ;  but  kin  are  these  who  meet 
Across  what  gulf  of  dark,  barbaric  time! 
"Lost  many  a  ruder  age,  thou  dost  repeat 
The  magic  of  my  verse  in  modern  rhyme. 
Once  more  I  hear  on  earth  that  low,  regretful 
chime." 

[73] 


Their  tenderness  and  kind  fraternity 
Knit  close  the  desperate  wounds  of  ancient  woe. 
As  one  new-born  he  smiles.     How  good  to  see 
That  soothed  pain  must  like  a  nightmare  go 
Or  braggart  rebel  Love  may  overthrow ! 
Now  bland  among  his  peers  he  doth  assume 
Their  blessed  station,  nevermore  to  know 
A  lonely  poet's  tragedy  of  doom, 
Secure   in   earth's   regard,  so   raised  from  the 
tomb. 

So  rose  the  misty  glamour  of  the  dead, 
A  shining  garment  wrapt  on  every  limb 
As  'twere  a  cloak  of  cloud  upon  him  spread 
That  doth  his  presence  from  the  world  bedim. 
And  he  is  one  with  god  and  seraphim, 
With  all  the  ghostly  part  of  humankind 
Whose  dreams  inspire,  or  beautiful  or  grim, 
Our  present  labor, — lovingly  resigned, 
A  radiant  thought  within  the  universal  mind. 


[74] 


TO  A  YOUNG  GIRL 

IHEN  that  I  met  thce  on  the  country 
side, 
A    maiden    Juno    in    thy    grace    of 

form, — 

The  bosom  broad  and  deep,  the  rounded  arm, 
The  stature  stately  with  a  native  pride, — 
I  deemed  thy  nature  with  its  form  allied; 
That  some  aspiring  love  in  thee  did  burn, 
Ambrosial  nectar  meet  for  holy  urn ; 
But  found  thy  spirit  sleeping  or  denied. 
And  now  (thy  presence  lingers  in  my  thought), 
I  breathe  a  prayer,  that  heaven  send  to  thee 
Some  passion  more  than  daily  bread  and  water ; 
So  that,  though  mortal-lived,  thou  grow  to  be 
Olympian-souled,  earth's  consecrated  daughter, 
And  wed  or  bear  a  hero,  as  thou  ought. 


[75] 


BEAUTY 

ER  beauty  lies  upon  her  face 
As   sunlight  masks  the  barren 

sea, 

A  fitful,   accidental  grace 
That  time  will  ravage  utterly. 

Not  like  the  beauty  all  divine 
(The  "House  of  God,"  a  poet  saith), 
Which   is    the   inward    soul's   design, 
Its  majesty  supreme  in  death. 


[76] 


MINIATURES 
I 

MARGARET 

F  I  dream  upon  thy  face 
And  its  beauty  comes  to  me 
'Tis    the   world's    enchanted 

place 
Wheresoever  I  may  be. 

'Tis  the  world's  enchanted  place, 
And  the  magic  never  dies 
From  the  glory  of  thy  face, 
From  the  candor  of  thine  eyes. 

II 

MIGNONNE 

Few  have  I  seen  to  bless  as  rich, 

But  thou  hast  wealth  of  hair  and  eyes,- 

Such  a  beauty  as  in  niche 

Of  ruined  fane  when  moonlight  dies; 

And  in  them  such  a  warmth  as  lies 
All  night  above  the  misty  plain, 
When  unto  dawn  the  brooding  skies 
Hesitate  'twixt  wind  and  rain. 


[77] 


Ill 

HELEN 

Thou  art  more  perfect  than  night, 

Sweet,  in  thy  lover's  sight. 

Thy  hair  hath  the  tender  shade 

In   which   the   world's    peace   is   laid ; 

Thine  eyes  have  the  intimate  glow 

Of  mellow  moons  gone  low. 

More  perfect  than  dawn  of  the  skies 

The  love  that  shines  in  thine  eyes, 

A  sun  that  moves  to  his  goal, — 

The  unfrequent  dawn  of  a  soul. 

IV 

MILDRED 

Time,  which  gave  thee  beauty,  made  me  wise, 
In  that  I  know  thy  beauty  and  thy  worth; 
And    thought    and    suffering   take    from   mine 

eyes 

Their  wonted  film  of  midnight  and  dull  earth, 
So  now  I  see  thee  first  without  disguise: 
A  soul  that  hides  its  tenderness  in  mirth. 

V 

MARGUERITE 

The  deeper  mood  of  France  thou  art ; 
That  faith  of  hers  that  flames  in  mirth, 
[78] 


Her  sense  of  beauty  more  than  earth ; 
God's  vicar  in  the  human  heart. 

In  Ronsard  young  and  Hugo  old — 
Their  love  and  wisdom  meeting  now — 
That  deeper  mood  of  France  art  thou ; 
The  beauty  which  is  truth,  best-told. 


[79] 


INVOCATION 

Y  love,  too  like  a  rose  thou  art 
Whose    beauty,    odorous    with 

delight, 
Hangs    feebly    now    upon    my 

heart 
To  scatter  soon,  like  fragile  night. 

My  love,  a  queenly  tigress  be ! 
That  when  I  quit  thee  in  disdain 
Thy  wrath  shall  make  thy  spirit  free 
And  fetter  mine  with  stronger  chain. 


[80] 


CASHMERE  LADY 

IAVEN-DAKK  the  lady's  eyes, 

The  lady  of  the  Persian  stream. 
Love,  in  oriental  wise, 

Shone  and  shimmered  through  her 

dream. 

A  shawl  about  her  brow  did  gleam, 
Softly  floating  from  her  brow; 
Unflushed  her  cheek  and  pallid  now 
But  rich  the  shawl  like  mellow  cream. 

O'er  her  throat  the  linen  lay, 

Her  arms  were  shaded  by  the  shawl ; 
Thence  it  shivering  fell  away, 

Misty-silent  waterfall. 

White  lilies  lapped  the  mossy  wall 
Offering  fragrance  at  her  feet ; 
A  mating  bulbul  trebled  sweet, 

The  lady  wondering  heard  its  call. 

By  her  hand  a  crystal  cup 

Rested  upon  the  river  brink. 
Ruddy  liquor  filled  it  up 

Sweeter  than  a  man  may  think. 

The  sleepy  moonlight  deep  did  sink, 
Dulled  the  flame  upon  its  tip. 
Whose  boat  adown  that  stream  will  slip, 

What  prince  that  crimson  goblet  drink? 

[81] 


TO  HERTHA 

ISSENCES  of  old  love  I  bring 
To  make  the  new  love  sweet ; 
Oh    many    a    wondrous,    broken 

thing 
Makes  love  complete. 

What  memories  that  buried  lay 
In  graveyard  of  the  past, 
Take  resurrection  from  this  day, 
Divine  at  last. 

What  whispers  on  what  summer  eves, 
What  worship  overthrown, 
What  faith  a  loveless  man  believes 
No  more  his  own ; 

What   scattered,  hopeless  dreams   arise 
And  reign  within  my  heart. 
The  union  of  all  prophesies, 
My  love,  thou  art ! 


[82] 


THE  MIRROR 

IITHIN  a  wondrous  glass, 
A  wondrous,  magic  mirror, 
I  gaze  and  see  my  features  nobler 

shown 

Than  I  can  dare  to  own, — 
Oh  nobler,  fairer,  dearer, 
Which  inward  graces   brighten   as   they  pass. 

How  beautiful,  how  strange 

To  note  so  wondrous  graces ! 

A   queen   might  feel  her  sceptre  cheaply   sold 

If  she  could  thus  behold 

A  glass  wherein  her  face  is 

Beyond  desire  made  fair  by  magic  change. 

Such  mirrors  no  one  buys, 

But  they  may  freely  own  them 

Who  rightly  love,  who  gladly  greet  the  time. 

All  these  will  have,  sublime, 

Their  souls  and  features  shown  them, 

Nobly  renewed,  within  their  children's  eyes. 


[83] 


THE  SICK  CHILD 

[N  hour  ago, — one  hour! — she  seemed 

as  new  and  bright 
As  some  first-opened  bud  upon  the 

lap  of  spring. 
The  wisdom  of  the  world,  reborn  in  her  delight, 
Arose  in  music,  changed  by  this  so  joyous  thing. 

But  now!     I  stand  abashed  in  my  inadequate 

years, 

Awed  by  the  look  of  one  wiser,  older  than  I : 
A  god's  long  tribulation  broods  behind  her  tears 
And  nature's  patient  hurt  is  woven  through  her 

cry. 


[84] 


THE  WIFE 

IUN-SEEKER  and  heaven-changer, 
Rise,  rich  in  the  power  I  give ; 
Go,  glad  in  the  joy  I  bring. 
What    dream    you,    my   love,    of 

danger? 

You  must  live  as  heroes  live 
And  turn  to  new  wandering, 
Already,  alas,  a  stranger! 

"The  wings  of  my  amplest  pleasure 

Unfold  for  your  boldest  flight. 

Your  soul  perceives  in  my  eyes 
Sky-spaces   of  spanless   measure 

And  suns  of  a  fadeless  light. 

Arise !     I  need  not  arise, 
Lying  so  close  to  my  treasure. 

"I  stay,  but  follows  my  blessing 
Unnamed  but  known  to  your  soul 
So  strong  to  take  and  employ. 

Another  needs  my  caressing, 
I  seek  for  no  distant  goal ; 
Like  God,  my  task  is  my  joy, — 

Possessed,  far  more  than  possessing." 


[85] 


THE  LOST  EPIC 

is  lost,  like  stars  that  roll  too  high; 

For    he    who    tells    his    grief    and 
mirth 

Had  better  write  upon  the  common 

earth 

What,  traced  in  constellations  in  the  sky 
Others  too  little  heed, 
Or  if  attracted  by  the  sudden  flame 
And  rumor  of  his  name 
They  raise  their  glance  to  read, 
It  seems  remote  and  dim,  no  human  gain. 
So  having  stared,  they  turn  again 
Gladly  to  nearer,  slighter  things 
And  praise,  perhaps,  a  lesser  bard  who  sings 
Never  so  nobly,  but  more  plain, 
A  man  to  men. 


[86] 


THE  LITTLE  WORLD 

MUSE  upon  the  ever-lessening  world, 
This  scheme  of  love  and  thought 

wherein  I  dwell, 
And    wonder, — once    so    mystical 

and  vast, 
Now  shrunk,  as  by  my  garden  wall  contained. 

Where  then,  O  where  the  cosmic  dream  of  youth ; 
O  where  the  boast  I  flung  about  the  stars, 
About  the  lives  of  men;  O  where  the  love, 
A  key  to  free  so  many  prisoned  lives? 

Gone,  gone  they  say,  the  bubble  with  the  breath 
That  blew  its  moment's  luster  in  the  sun ; 
Gone,  gone  they  cry;  of  youth's  colossal  world 
Remain  a  garden,  half  a  dozen  friends ! 

So  let  it  be!     What  though  its  bounds  with 
draw 

Dream  after  dream,  and  hope  retires  to  hope, 
The  multitudes  for  whom  I  once  aspired 
United  in  the  child  I  now  adore? 

What    though    the    fruits    within    this    garden 
close 

Consume  the  days  and  give  my  thoughts  con 
cern 

With  gossip  of  the  season,  wind  and  rain, 

A  little  gossip  by  the  mossy  wall? 
[87] 


Friends,  family,  labor,  with  a  loyal  hope 
The  world  goes  well,  but  not  too  anxious  care; 
This  is  the  natural  compass  of  a  man, 
A  full  heart  loving  best  a  little  world. 

The  full  heart  loving  best  a  little  world, 
O  secret  hidden  from  the  heartless  boy! — 
And,  as  the  soul  develops,  it  lays  down 
Its  dizzy  frets  of  parliament  and  king. 


[88] 


TO  THE  UNKNOWN  GOD 

doff  the   wrinkled  mask  you 

wear, 
This  nature  motley,  worn  and 

old- 
Stand  forth,  in  gaiety  or  despair, 
Outside  the  dumb  worlds  we  behold ! 

No  more  i'  the  silly  seasons  dwell 
Grinning  at  time  with  satyr  face, 
Nor  frown  from  the  cold  citadel 
You  raised  amid  the  voids  of  space; 

Else,  tired  of  this  unfriendly  mask 
Our  lives  avert  its  stranger-gaze 
And  turn  them  to  a  worthier  task, 
An  inward  world  of  works  and  days. 


[91] 


INDICTMENT  OF  TIME 

o  time  I'll  never  turn  a  thankful  face 
Though,    as    thou    sayest,    he    will 

fetch  a  day 

When  every  radiant  joy  and  black 
disgrace 

Indifferent  seem,  like  gardens  in  decay. 
I  look  to  him  for  nought  but  further  woe: 
His  days  ne'er  muster  for  a  past  defeat, 
But  still  intent  on  plunder  as  they  go, 
Ignoble  captains !  ever  sound  retreat. 
In  him  no  virtue  vests  save  other  days 
Which  still  are  thieves,  though  sorrow  be  their 

theft ; 

No  more  to  him  let  earth  present  her  praise, 
Poor  Niobe,  even  of  tears  bereft. 

Physician  yes,  but  not  a  judge  is  time, 
Who   cures   the   stab   but   disregards   the 
crime. 


[92] 


EPIGRAM:  INSOMNIA 

IHE  silly  years,  like  driven  sheep 
File  blindly   through  the   gates  of 

life. 

We,  tossed  in  dull  or  febrile  strife, 
Count   one,   two,   three  .   .   .  and   yawn  asleep. 


[93] 


THE  RESIGNED 

oo  blind  you  will  not  see  the  general 

grief 
Which  voiceless  you  would  hide  from 

other  minds, 
And  never  learn  how  nature  craves  relief 
From  one  disease  in  men  of  many  kinds. 
Oh,  fool,  how  many  fools  must  time  consume, 
Grim  wasted  heroes,  blindly  dumb  like  thee, 
Whose  curtained  spirits  pent  tremendous  doom 
On  private  stage  the  world  shall  never  see ! 
You're  like  an  actor,  fool,  who  argues  blame 
Upon  the  author's  warm  and  feeling  pen 
For  every  passion,  garbling  it  with  shame : 
"Tears  are  for  women,  gravity  for  men." 
Dear  fool,  your  heart  shall  tell  if  I  am  wrong, 
Which  is  your  Poet,  silenced  far  too  long. 


[94] 


GOD-IN-MAN 

kHEN    I    do    see    our    human    nature 

stained 
Like     beauteous     garments     trailed 

upon  the  ground, 
In   tenement   and   palace   alike   constrained 
To  ominous  forms  that  do  my  soul  confound; 
At  lust,  at  hate,  at  all  the  bestial  shapes 
Brutality  or  weakness  may  assume, — 
Thrice-savage  tigers,  thrice-despoiling  apes 
Nuzzling  the  world  to  one  degraded  doom, — 
Yet,  at  such  monstrous  fabric  and  design 
I  cannot  lash  my  heart  to  righteous  hate, 
But  murmur  still,  "Oh,  piteous  world  of  mine, 
Such  stuff  as  maketh  Christs,  whenever  fate 
In  some  unconscious  and  reluctant  hour 
Will  let  mankind  disclose  his  native  power!" 


[95] 


LUCIFER 

IHEN    you    perceive    the   world's    pro 
phetic   soul 
A  prisoner  grieving  in  the  common 

mind, 

His  cloudy  wings  bereft  of  their  control, 
His  arms  downslack,  his  fiery  vision  blind ; 
Oh  when  you  see  him  weep  at  women's  eyes 
Or  hear  his  tender  moan  in  children's  breath, 
His  innocence  revealed  in  sinners'  cries 
As  by  the  good  man's  decent  gradual  death ; 
Do  you  not  wonder  oft  and  seek  with  me 
What  power  hath  brought  this  Lucifer  so  low 
That  every  ditch  bedaubs  his  brilliancy, 
And  foulest  huts  on  him  their  shadow  throw? 
For  this  the  bard  invokes,  in  mournful  rhyme, 
The  awful  charity  of  death  and  time. 


[96] 


THE  STRICKEN  KING 

were    a   foolish   king,   indeed,   to 

show 
A   regal   brow   and    sceptre   to   the 

gaze 

But  let  his  robe  be  muddy-dragged  below, 
And  think  to  rule  respected  all  his  days ; 
For  soon  his  court  will  scorn  such  monarchy 
Nor  call  him  king  who  is  not  wholly  royal ; 
His  slaves  will  grin,  ev'n  ministers  cease  to  be 
Respectful  subjects,  in  their  heart  disloyal. 
Yet  man  is  so,  who  doth  the  world  o'ersway 
And  hold  eternal  kingdom  of  the  deep, — 
His  own  conceit  doth  steal  respect  away, 
By  birth  a  king,  by  act  a  chimney-sweep. 
His  sceptre  would  become  him  like  a  star, 
If  inward  greed  did  not  its  glory  mar. 

Yet,  longer  dwelling  in  that  ruined  court 

Where  man,  the  stricken  king,  so  ill  doth  reign, 

I  find  his  folly  wiser  than  report 

And  his  defilement  daughter  of  his  pain. 

He's  like  a  king  who  never  knew  repose 

But  lives  in  constant  dread  to  be  o'erthrown, 

Buying  a  half-obedience  from  his  foes, 

Still  half-a-king  to  them  who  would  have  none. 

And  so  his  robe  is  stained,  his  front  dismayed, 

His  court  a  mock,  himself  but  half  a  king ; 

[97] 


And  so  his  magnanimity's  arrayed 
So  foully-gowned,  a  self-impeaching  thing. 
And  so  his  royalty  might  be  a  scorn, 
If  it  were  not  too  piteous  and  forlorn. 

Himself  his  foe  and  bitter  regicide ; 

Himself  the  rebel  risen  in  his  state ; 

Himself  his  spy  and  minister,  to  chide 

Himself  to  wrong  and  nourish  his  own  hate ; 

Himself  his  fool  that  doth  himself  beguile ; 

Himself  his  scullion,  foul  to  that  degree; 

Himself  his  beggar,  skilled  in  tearful  wile 

Himself  to  sue  in  his  necessity ; 

Yet  king  withal,  and  proved  by  future  act 

When  all  that  baser  self  he  may  resign, 

Leagued  with  himself  and  firm  in  his  own  pact 

To  live  a  monarch,  royal  in  his  line ! 

A  king  withal,  and  nowise  made  more  clear : 
His  clownish  self  his  kingly  self  doth  fear. 


[98] 


CHRISTI  AMOR 

|ow  strange  my  love,  O  Lord,  for  see, 

I  fight  thee ; 

Thy  word  on  every  lip  I  do  deny. 
No  form  thou  comest  in  but  I  shall 

right  thee, — 
I  shall  not  take  Thee  wholly  lest  I  die. 

Come  thou  in  word  or  deed  of  men  soever, 

Be  thou  incarnate  in  my  heart's  best  cry, 

The    strangeness    of    my    love    will    leave    off 

never, — 
I  shall  not  take  thee  wholly  lest  I  die. 

Yet  Lord  I  love  thee;  yea,  Lord  Christ,  I  love 

thee ! 

I  love  thee  ere  the  wounds  I  make  are  dry, 
Nathless    I   hold   the   dripping   scourge    above 

thee, 
And  shall  not  take  thee  wholly  lest  I  die. 

Nay,  see  how  great  my  love !  it  will  not  alter 
Not  if  the  sun  be  withered  in  the  sky. 
All  loves  on  earth  but  mine  will  fail  and  falter 
But,  Lord,  I  shall  not  take  thee  lest  I  die. 

And  still  I  must  pursue  where'er  thou  goest, 

Yea,  loving  thee  so  much  must  crucify. 

How   strange   the   deepest   love   of   men,   thou 

knowest. 

I  shall  not  take  thee  wholly  lest  I  die ! 
[99] 


"AS  WHEN  FROM  OUT  A  HOME" 

s  when  from  out  a  home  the  mother 

goes, 
Forth-carried  dead  and  given  to  the 

earth; 

When    sons    and    daughters,    stricken    in    mid- 
mirth, 

Full  sadly  gaze  upon  each  other's  woes ; 
And  one  tries  sobbing  comfort,  but  he  knows 
The  house  is  dead  forever, — room  by  room 
Sealed  on  the  joyous  past,  ev'n  with  the  tomb 
That  silently  upon  her  life  doth  close: 
So   with  the  man   from  whom  stark  thoughts 

have  ta'en 

The  presence  and  the  parenthood  of  God. 
However  mild,  however  pure  he  be, 
His  mind  is  locked  in  loneliness  and  pain, 
A  ruined  house. — An  anxious  orphan  he, 
And  dreads  the  drear  asylum  of  the  sod. 


[100] 


MEMORABILIA 

How  hard  it  is  to  explain,  in  any  way  to  bring 
back  the  charm  of  a  person  who  leaves  no  adequate 
record. 

RICHARD  WATSON  GILDER. 

EVER  dig  i'  the  changing  mold 
For  their  secret  when  they  die, 
Nor  inquire  them,  silent-souled 
In  a  mild,  impersonal  sky; 

But,  when  they  have  parted,  gaze 
On  these  touched,  familiar  things — 
There  the  passion  of  their  days, 
All  their  wistful  secret,  clings. 

Voices,  sterner  than  their  own, 
From  their  books  and  papers  fall, 
From  the  pipe,  the  tattered  gown, 
From  the  knapsack  on  the  wall. 


[101] 


WAR  AND  PEACE 

HE  world  has  sown  too  long  its  fertile 

mind  in  war 

And  raised  its  passions  for  an  am 
buscade  ; 

Our  souls  and  bodies  sicken  of  the  common  scar, 
The  mutual  hurt,  the  mutual  treason,  made. 
Now  closelier  looking,  see  within  each  other's 

eyes 

One  sorrow  shining  back,  one  need  the  same, — 
Yea,  all  the  necessary  hate  we  recognize 
From  some  eternal  foe,  not  man,  it  came. 

Oh,  thrust  the  sword  away,  that  hateful  key  of 

hell! 

We  take  a  manlier  weapon  for  our  foe 
And  courage  of  a  nobler  kind  to  use  it  well, 
Such  monstrous  dangers  lurk  where  we  must  go. 
The  banner  had  its  beauty?  let  it  not  be  furled 
But  all  one  color,  all  one  proud  design, 
Flaunt   to   our  purer   faith  the  union  of  this 

world 
When  sun  and  sea  have  joined  our  battle  line. 

Our  dream  is  brotherhood ;  we  never  prayed  for 

peace, 
The  idleness  that  slackens  arm  and  brain ; 


[102] 


For  war,  our  war,  begins  when  fratricide  shall 
cease, 

And  lust  despair  a  victory  so  vain. 

Then  lest  we  drowse  may  drums  in  stormy  pas 
sion  roll 

The  joyous  thrill  of  battle  evermore: 

The  tiger-man  we  hate  has  taught  our  chas 
tened  soul 

Devotion  to  the  death, — which  is  war! 


[103] 


TIGER 

TIGER,  jungle-laired,  thee  God  cre 
ated! 
His   hands   thy   regal  limbs   have 

fashioned, 
Yet  who  so  perfect  hate  impassioned 
With  all  thy  might  and  fearful  beauty  mated? 

Was't  God  or  jubilant,  destroying  devil 
Has  made  my  heart  a  jungle,  frantic 
With  more  than  tiger's  frenzied  antic — 
The  sensual  feast  of  skulls,  the  bloody  revel? 

Lord,    Lord,    the    heart    when    tiger    rageth 

through  it! 

A  garden  gashed  of  all  its  lilies, 
A  gutted  tomb  where  lethal  chill  is — 
Canst  Thou  it  sweeten,  Lord,  canst  Thou  re 
new  it? 


[104] 


THE   BEGINNING  OF  LAUGHTER 

I  HERE  was  no  laughter  then, 
But   something  unnamed,  unspoken 
Of    tears    that    dripped    an    unfelt 

course. 

For  it  was  evening,  and  the  wolves 
From  far  off,  back,  from  mountains   and  the 

trackless  woods, 
With  thin  and  wavering-echoed  cry  and  doleful 

shriek  and  wail, 

Lined   round   the   thoughts   of  men,   bounding 
emotion  with  incessant  fear. 

There  was  no  laughter  then, 

For  suns  marked  out  a  waiting  fang  and  bloody 

mouth, 

Morning  brought  the  skulking  wretch  to  light. 
Stones  crashed 

From  crag  with  bound  on  bound; 
Men  sideways  looked,  and  saw,  and  snarled, 
And  hungered  on. 
Openly  a  ripple  pushed  the  stream 
And  big  and  black  in  deep,  in  shallow,  lurked 
The  monster,  waiting. 
Aye,  there  was  no  laughter  then. 
Ever  in,  and  round,  from  above  the  faces  peered, 
Each  one  fearful. 


[105] 


Nor  was  there  height, — height  of  thought  or 
gaze. 

Man  crept  on  earth,  a  bent  thing,  never  sky 
ward  looking, — 

Less,  skyward  thinking. 

At  last,  one  fortunate  born, 

Whiter  skinned  than  his  hairy  fellows, — 

Whiter  skinned  and  deeper  browed, — 

Crept  up  to  watch  some  star  that  mocked  his 
conception, 

(Making  a  feeble  wonder  in  his  soul), 

And  creeping,  found  a  crag  that  closed  the  val 
ley, — 

A  great  rock. 

There,  all  night  long,  he  gazed  upon  that  star, 

This  new-born  child  of  thought, 

Looked  upward,  looked  out. 

Dawn  found  him  still  awake, 

His  eyes  open,  but  wider  open  the  heavy-filmed 
eyes  of  his  soul, 

His  head  reflectively  rested  upon  his  hands. 

Light  rolled  down  through  the  clefts,  flooding 
the  valleys. 

The  watcher  gazed  where  other  valleys  cleft 
more  hills  beyond, 

And  how  the  river  reappeared  larger,  farther 
down. 

So  grew  the  world  unto  his  sight. 

[106] 


He  marked,  as  in  another  world, 

The  drear,  hard  habitation  of  the  tribe. 

Outstretched,  his  eager  head 

Peered  down  as  to  a  game  whose  interest  fills 

the  heart. 

He  marked  the  ant-like  goings-out  from  caves, 
Their  swift,  instinctive  swerve. 
He  saw  the  tumult  of  foolish  battles, 
Seizures,  thefts,  hands  uplift  in  hate. 
He  marked  each  rush,  each  leap  from  high, 
And  felt  as  in  himself  the  crunch  of  bones. 
He  shuddered  at  the  striped  beast ; 
He  saw  the  woman  crouching  still,  immovable, 
Her  head  low. 
There  were  deaths  and  cries. 

But  he,  with  eagerness  all  new 

At  this  strange  scope  and  spectacle  of  life, 

Followed  the  weak  thread  of  being 

Through  all  its  windings ;  heard  with  new  ears 

the  flaring  cries. 
Now  in  his  heart  he  felt  a  stir 
As  when  a  seed  bursts,  or  a  tree 
Leaps    into    springtime    and    the    tension    of 

leaves, — 

A  stir  within  him,  a  growing,  an  increasing, 
A  waxing  mightier  and  mightier. 
So  brooding  he,  the  pioneer  of  the  human  soul, 
The  first  pilot  on  the  ocean  of  destiny, 

[107] 


Knew  that  the  stir  within  him  could  not  stay 
But  must  break  from  its  prison,  as  life  breaks 

from  the  egg; 
And  rose,  open-mouthed,  facing  the  west,  the 

huge  sources  of  night, — 
When,  stretching  his  arms  as  he  would  fold 
Then  to  his  human  heart  all  sorrows  of  men 
Past,  present,  and  to  come  soever, — 
(A  prehistoric  pitier  of  men,  the  child-soul  that 

with  the  generations 
Grew  into  the  stature  of  Christ), — 
Poised  his  head  higher,  and  facing  the  heavens 

full-eyed,  square, — 
The  first  man  to  question  God, — 
Laughed  to  himself ! 

Like  to  water  running  under  the  ground, 

Past  a  bleak  pit  where  a  doomed  man 

Licks  his  hand  for  thirst ;  who  hears  the  water 

flowing 
But  does  not  cry,  and  endures  to  the  end  of  the 

bitter  life: 

So  the  laughter  was  in  sound, 
And  like  the  water  it  flowed  forth,  and  past, 

and  departed, 
And  there  was  an  end  of  it. 

Then  he,  grown  to  the  height  of  his  being, 
Shrunk  down  the  backward  slope  of  growth, 

[108] 


And  bowed  his  head,  and  crept  from  the  crag, 

sorrowing. 

But  there  was  that  in  his  eyes  the  old  fear 
Could  never  quench,  nor  the  old  animalism 
Utterly  win  back ;  which  when  his  fellows  saw 
They  stood  in  awe  of  him, — 
Him,  who  had  first  laughed  at  the  world's  fear, 
Him,  the  first  poet. 


[109] 


THE  POET 

is  soul  a  hid  desire  obeys 
Which,  like  daedalian  wings, 
Impels  him  from  the  prison-maze 
Of  customary  things. 


"I  know  not  how  or  where,"  he  said, 
"But  from  myself  I  fly 

As  leaves  must  when  the  tree  is  dead, 

Wind-blown  across  the  sky. 

"When  sorrow  clogs  my  active  mind 
With  dullness  worse  than  death, 
I  leave  this  winter-self  behind, — 
Spent  thoughts  and  laboring  breath,- 

"And  rising  from  that  barren  home 
In  far,  unconscious  flight, 
To  planets  of  new  joy  I  roam 
And  skies  of  more  delight. 

"But  when  I  tire  and  sink  again 

Within  myself,"  he  said, 
"It  seems  as  if  this  world  of  men 

Had  risen  from  the  dead." 


[110] 


THE  HYPOCRITE 

HEAVIER  world  than  God's  you 

bear 

Upon  that  misdevoted  head ; 
Yet  when  unburdened,  being 

dead, 
No  god, — a  pigmy, — totters  there. 


cm] 


IDOLATOR 

WANT  Thy  presence  ever  nigh, 
Thy    love,    Thy    beauty    and 

Thy  grace ; 
Yet  when  I  sought  Thou  wert 

not  by, 
I  prayed,  but  never  saw  Thy  face. 

Within  my  soul  Thy  glory  burns 
Serene,  unchanging  yet  afar, 
So  bright  its  own  thick  shadow  turns 
Like  chaos  round  a  lonely  star. 

I  asked  of  nature ;  everywhere 
A  footstep  and  a  sign  of  Thee, 
Alas,  too  grand, — not  mine  to  dare 
Omniscience  and  infinity ! 

A  little  image  I  have  made, 
Behold,  dear  God,  a  tiny  thing, 
And  I  have  hoped   (but  half  afraid) 
Thou  couldst  approve  its  fashioning. 

I  hoped  Thou  would  its  form  approve 
And  enter,  as  a  temple  fit, 
Since  Thou,  so  human  in  Thy  love, 
Might  love  the  shape  containing  it. 

They  may  have  right, — I  do  not  know, — 
Who  throne  Thee  in  the  solemn  sky, 
But  oh,  dear  God,  I  love  Thee  so 
I'd  have  Thee  ever  small,  and  nigh ! 
[112] 


CRISIS 

|VER,   ever  the  wind  blows,  storm  or 

peace ; 
Rolls,    rolls    the    ocean    its    eternal 

tides ; 

The  constant  sun  returns ;  each  star  abides 
In  heavens  that  change  but  never,  never  cease. 
Only  our  mortal,  loving  race 
Feels  any  reck  for  time  and  place. 

Ever,  ever  the  wind  fares  back  and  forth; 
Eternal  rocks  the  sea-tide  outward,  in; 
The  sun  renews  all  kalends  that  have  been ; 
Restore  the  stars  their  cycles  to  the  north. 
Only  our  eager,  hopeful  eyes 
Mark  progress  on  the  wheeling  skies. 

Ever,  ever  the  wind  its  tireless  flight 
Urges  along  the  ocean's  wave-beat  shore ; 
The  day  receives  and  spends,  like  all  before, 
Its  portion  of  the  universal  light. 
Only  our  true,  devoted  breast 
Divides  the  seasons,  worst  and  best. 

O  wind,  be  favorable  to  my  small  bark ; 
For  my  sake,  ocean,  lay  your  tempest-foam. 
For  me  the  last  sun  flickers ;  nearing  home, 
Kind  stars,  direct  my  harbor  through  the  dark. 
Only  within  our  lonely  soul 
God  thrust  a  secret  and  a  goal. 
[113] 


MASTER 

WILL  make  me  a  master,  I  said, 
And  seize  life  where  it  is  eager  and 

new, 
Flaming    from    the    Maker,   blood 

red. 

Across  the  jungle  I  crept 
Even  to  the  tiger's  cave,  and  slew 
That    beautiful    body    striped    and    sleek    and 

strong 

While  the  spirit  slept. 

Folly !    sobbed   nature    through   her   language- 
winds, 

Folly  and  wrong ! 
Go    forth,    return    to    man's    own    jungle    of 

minds ; 

There,  slaying  the  fierce  desire 
And  striking  dead  the  brutal  thoughts,  she  said, 
Take  to  yourself  the  tiger's  primal  fire, — 
Live  the   Master's   life,  eager   and  new,  blood 
red! 


[114] 


PROMETHEAN 

|  o  fling  off  name,  character  and  fate ; 
To  stand  still  like  a  tree 
The  body  all  one  conscious  bloom, 
Head  high  and  stalwart   arms   out 
straight 

Capable  to  bear  the  fruits  of  life  ; 

To  run  like  a  river 

Undammed,  rapid,  sped  by  desire 

For  newer  landscapes  in  the  soul, 

Feeling  some  premonition  of  the  sea, — 

A  mad,  exultant  shiver, — 

This  is  to  catch  again 

A  spark  from  the  lost  fire, 

And  know  once  more  the  mystery  of  men. 


[115] 


PILGRIMS 

what's  the  toil  of  foot  and  hand 
To  walk,  to  touch,  to  hear,  to  see, — 
That  merely  bears  from  land  to  land 
This  lethal  flesh  and  bones  of  me? 

Vain  pilgrim,  without  shrine  or  goal, 

Be  still,  like  nature's  patient  clod. 

Do  thou  advance,  aspiring  soul, 

Through  every  clime  and  thought  of  God! 


[116] 


FREE  CAPTAINS 

loose  our  sail  to  every  gale 
And    never    reef    for    night    or 

squall ; 

In  spite  of  all 
The  storms  that  fly  about  the  sky 
And  all  the  plunging  breakers  hurled 
We  ride  the  foam 
That  bears  us  home 
Beyond  the  farthest  corner  of  the  world. 

We  give  the  slip  to  every  ship 

Whose  skipper's  paid  to  stay  on  board. 

He  can't  afford 

To  point  her  nose  where  danger  blows 

But  waits  in  harbor,  safely  furled, 

And  fears  the  foam 

That  bears  us  home 

Beyond  the  farthest  corner  of  the  world. 

We  take  the  sea  because  'tis  free 

Of  settled  towns  and  roads  that  bind. 

Out  sail,  to  find 

Some  jolly  place,  some  lusty  race 

Who  cut  their  sail  but  never  furled; 

Who  rode  the  foam 

That  bears  us  home 

Beyond  the  farthest  corner  of  the  world. 


[117] 


We  fling  our  boast  from  coast  to  coast 

For  naught  of  war  or  trade  we  make, 

But  for  the  sake 

Of  the  free  soul  and  the  glad  goal 

That  shines  where  seas  are  maddest  curled,- 

To  ride  the  foam 

That  bears  us  home 

Beyond  the  farthest  corner  of  the  world ! 


[118] 


THE  EMPTY  BOWL 

YOUTH  What's  the  soul? 

AGE  Empty  bowl ! 

POET  Fill  it  full  of  stars  and  flowers, 

Fill  it  full  of  sun  and  showers, 
Beauty   earth's    and   beauty   sky's, — 
Fill  it,  ere  the  moment  flies 
Which  to  none  comes  after ! 

MOTHER        Nay,  not  full !     Leave  many  spaces 
For  kind  hearts  and  friendly  faces, 
Children's      warmth      and      women's 

graces 
Human  pain  and  human  laughter. 

POET  Men  are  noblest  when  alone 

With  the  stars, — 

MOTHER  When  men  have  grown 

Beauty  never  can  atone 
For  the  love  of  woman. 

PRIEST  Not  so  weak,  so  human, 

Not  so  wanton-vain ! 
Fill  it  not  with  earthly  care 
Since  delight  will  turn  to  pain. 
Leave  the  world's  unseemly  revel 
To  the  devil,— 

Naught  has  worth  but  vow  and  solemn 
prayer ! 

CYNIC  What's  the  cup  devotion  fills 

Or  that  silly  passions  brim 
Blindly-bubbling  to  the  rim? 

[  "9  ] 


Fill  your  soul  so  fast,  my  master, 

Death  will  empty  it  the  faster, 

Breaks  each  cup  he  does,  and  spills 

Red  wine,  white  wine  in  the  dust, — 

Spill  it  must! 
YOUTH          Vain  the  effort  that  would  fill  it? 

Let  the  Maker  take 

What  so  soon  will  break ! 

Wither,  wither  flowers, 

Men  ungreeted  pass, 

Idly  fall  the  hours ! 

'Tis  a  weak,  a  useless  glass 

If  I  needs  must  spill  it. 
POET  Beauty  brings  an  hour's  delight, 

Let  no  rapture  pass  untasted. 
MOTHER       I  shall  love  with  all  my  might 

Home  and  husband.  4 

PRIEST  Pray  aright, 

All  but  faith  is  wasted. 
YOUTH          Oh,  the  yearning  soul! 

Too,  too  fragile  bowl 

Made  for  some  immortal  wine 

And  a  god's  intoxication. 

I  will  ask  the  whole  creation 

For  a  permanence  divine. 

What  I  hope  so  purely 

Must  be  granted,  surely ! 

Why  not  fill  our  souls  with  God? 
CYNIC  Fool !     Who — 

GOD  Wheeling   star   and   sleeping   clod, 

[120] 


Sunset  I,  and  summer  rains, 
Children's  voices,  homes  and  household 

care, 

Friendship,  virtue,  silence,  prayer. 
Let  your  human  souls  with  these  be 

filled. 

When  at  last  the  wine  is  spilled 
From  the  life-bowl  broken, — 

ALL  What  remains? 

GOD  I  am  there. 


THE  MATERIALISTIC  SCIENTIST 

|ITH  wondrous  powers  you  make 

intense 

The  ear  to  list,  the  eye  to  see, 
Yet  feel  not  in  the  elements 
An  unsubstantial  Mystery, — 
O  modern  wastrel,  joylessly 
Living  and  dying  by  the  sense ! 


IMMORTAL 

o  much,  no  more,  have  I  descried 
The  movings  of  the  Master  mind : 
The  blowing  of  a  bournless  wind, 
The  turning  of  a  timeless  tide ; 

And  that  the  wind  blows  o'er  the  lea 

To  ripen  stores  of  asphodel, 

And  that  the  tide  turns  to  impel 

Our  blissful  dead  across  the  sea. 


[123] 


EPIGRAM 

EAR    not,    for    God    has    many    a 

world. 

These  lives  now  prisoned  in  dis 
tress 

Await,  like  ships  in  harbor  furled, 
Winds  of  diviner  happiness. 


[124] 


ORTHODOXY 

H,  let  us,  like  the  bitter  dreg  of  wine 
That's  stood  too  long  undrunken  in 

the  bowl, 
Spill  out  this  barren  love  that  once 

divine 

So  vigorous  brimmed  the  world's  aspiring  soul ! 
Man's  not  that  beggar,  sure,  that  he  must  drain 
The  acid  vintage  of  a  broken  press, 
Nor  dull  his  heart  with  unconsoling  pain, 
That  craves  by  nature  joy  and  tenderness? 
Ah  no,  but  rather  say  you  never  loved 
Nor  knew,  O  world,  the  passion  of  delight, 
Else  you  by  such  a  cheat  were  never  moved 
But  discontented,  soon  would  set  it  right. 
For  he  who  truly  loves  will  love  again, 
Though  on  the  cross  and  scourged  by  jealous 
men. 


[125] 


ELEGY 

is  agony  upon  him,  he  has  passed 
The  lonely  door  of  death, 
Leaving  the  world  his  body  and  his 
breath, 

His   reputation  and  his   character. 

With  these  he  has  no  more  concern  at  last. 

The  world  must  take  what  was  the  world's  to 
give; 

Must  take  and  use  again 

To  house  the  lingering  of  another  soul, 

For  he,  the  wanderer, 

No  longer  fellow  to  the  lives  we  live, 

Has  stumbled  on  and  lost  the  world  of  men. 

Oh  he  has  fled 

Beyond  the  limit  of  the  sun, 

Beyond  the  seasons  wtiere  they  roll, 

Beyond  the  years:  the  last,  remotest  one 

Shall  reach  him  not,  the  unattainable  dead ! 

And  he  is  fugitive 

Forever  from  that  nature  he  had  worn, 

The  world-wide  searching  eyes, 

The  world-deep  loving  heart, 

The  mind  wherein  were  born 

Thoughts  of  an  infinite  scope  and  enterprise. 

These  now  are  part 


[126] 


Of  us,  not  him,  and  stay 
Within  our  world,  still  subject  to  a  power 
Which,  in  the  agony  of  one  mad  hour, 
He  learned  to  put  away. 

Against  the  darkened  curtain  of  that  doom 

I  see  his  life  replayed 

Vivid  and  stark,  like  sudden  lightning  made 

Through  tangled  storm  and  gloom. 

I  see  O  God !  who  could  not  see  before, 

The  desperate  load  he  bore 

Merely  to  live,  to  linger  here  awhile 

A  servant  in  the  house  of  thought  and  sense. 

A  single  glance,  a  movement  slow,  intense, 

One  tender  smile, 

Affirm  the  inward  failure  no  one  knew 

Louder  than  Waterloo. 

Failure?     He  felt  it  so 

Whose  spirit  could  not  stay  content  with  less 

Than  states  of  being  joyous  and  sublime 

We  dare  not  term  success ; 

Who  longed  to  throw 

A  spiritual  passion  in  each  word 

And  wing  our  languid  time 

With  instincts  of  forgotten  loveliness. 

Yet  was  he  like  a  prisoner,  deterred 

By  some  too-ponderous  chain 

Within  the  dungeon  of  his  physical  pain. 

His  soul,  for  self  too  vast, 

[127] 


Fettered  by  secret  tyrants  in  the  blood, 

Hated  the  personal  mood 

His  languor  fixed  about  it,  and  was  strong 

To  name  such  living  failure  till  the  last. 

On  him,  who  felt  each  day 

Some  noble  purpose  gather  all  in  vain, 

Some  aspiration  hurried  to  its  grave 

He  loved  but  could  not  save, — 

Who  called  this  failure, — nay, 

On  him  the  wrong ! 

He  does  not  fail  who  brings 

One  desperate,  purging  grief  to  men ; 

Who,  faithful  to  his  agony,  shows  again 

Our  need  of  perfect  things. 

Nay,  but  in  the  moment's  awful  peace 
That  bore  him  forth 
And  gave  his  body  to  the  jealous  earth, 
At  last  I  know 

Too,  too  irrevocably  the  dead 
And  O  too  far  is  fled 
That  one  may  so 

Pity  his  pain  or  reverence  his  success. 
But  let  this  be 

The  play  of  little  children,  or  the  scheme 
Of  earth-bound,  cunning  minds,  that  raise 
Vain  trophies  to  a  blatant  victory; 
Whose  days 

Are    shut   within   this    sensuous   house;   whose 
dream 

[128] 


Deflowers  with  the  winter  of  the  world. 

For  he,  still  penitent 

To  that  perfection  earth  can  not  contain 

Nor  thought  and  sense  invent, 

Descrying  dimly  through  each  failing  nerve 

Beauty  he  could  not  serve, 

In  brooding  desperation,  hurled 

The  pile  of  nature's  prison  all  apart 

And  trod  the  fiery  tyranny  of  pain 

Into  the  dust  death  mingled  with  his  own. 

Roll  on,  O  star  implacable,  and  roll 
To  whatsoever  good,  O  fatal  time, 
Your  seasons  may  pretend ! 
For  me  these  things  have  end. 
The  love  that  made  us  single,  will  and  heart, 
With  him  has  passed  sublime 
The  lonely  door  of  death 
Into  its  native  world,  my  conscious  soul ; 
And  though  your  troubled  tides  upheave 
Interminably,  and  make  my  breath 
The  common,  desolate  moan 
Of  stricken  beast, 
I  stand  released. 

The  very  stab  of  pain  whereby  I  grieve, 
Wherethrough  I  die, 

Gives  surer,  sterner  strength  that  I  may  cry 
Over  this  lethal  world,  0  Elegy ! 


[129] 


THE  RETURN  OF  RELIGION 

TO    ABDUL    BAHA 

DORS  from  gardens  deeply  hid 
Remote  from  spoiling  change,  and 

tended  long, 
Odors      and      perfumes      delicately 

strong 

Upon  the  winds  have  slid 
Into  our  modern  sense. 
Oh  subtle,  oh  intense 
With   more   than   balm,   with  healing   for   the 

mind! 

How  shall  we  speak  our  gratitude  to  those 
Whose  hid,  devoted  garden  grows 
The  flowers  of  faith,  of  innocence 
And  strews  their  virtue  freely  on  the  wind? 

Deeper  than  sense  and  farther  than  our  blood 

These  odors  penetrate, 

Which  pierce  within  our  soul's  most  secret  mood 

And  change  our  fate ; 

Incorporate 

Henceforth  with  all  we  feel  and  think  and  do, 

Thereby  with  what  we  are. 

Once  more  we  feel  an  aspiration  rise 

From  depths  of  our  own  nature  to  renew 

Its  marriage-vows  with  God, 

[130] 


To  enter,  bidden,  His  adorable  skies 

No  longer  hateful,  alien  or  too  far. 

Once  more  we  think,  in  rapture  of  new  dream, 

Of  those  forsaken  visions  prophesied ; 

That  glorious  City  long  ago  descried, 

How  long,  alas,  untrod ! 

And  once  again,  with  bolder  hand  and  will, 

With  hearts  fire-purified, 

We  turn  us  to  the  interrupted  scheme, 

Never,  never  contented  now  until 

All  men  foregather  to  one  holy  hill. 

But  many  peoples  claim  our  gratitude 

Whose  lives  release  that  essence  we  adore, 

Contributive  to  our  religious  mood. 

Not  one  tradition  only,  not  one  race — 

No,  all  past  time  and  every  humble  place 

Which  blindly  groped  apart 

Unite  at  last,  at  last  restore 

Their  scattered  features  to  one  perfect  face, 

Their  sundered  loves  to  one  fraternal  heart. 

We  could  not  spare 

A  single  prophet,  any  votive  fane, 

One  amulet  or  token,  making  plain 

Our  necessary,  life-instinctive  care 

For  worship  and  for  prayer. 

He  is  not  jealous  nor  implacable 

Who  freely  offered  His  divinity 

In  measure  portioned  to  the  savage  soul; 

[131] 


Who  WAS  the  druid's  tree, 

Who  WAS  the  voodoo's  spell, 

Who  WAS  the  sun  that  made  the  Indian  whole ! 

The  prophets  in  one  fellowship  return, 

Their  holy   sanctions  bright  upon  them,  each 

Bearing  a  gift  of  wondrous  act  or  speech, 

Some  fragment  of  God's  personality 

Whereby  we  learn 

The  nature  He  must  be. 

Adam  returns  who  at  the  gates  of  time 

Thrust  back  the  sensuous  beast 

Trailing    the    dormant    soul    through    jungle 

slime ; 

Moses,  that  ancient  awe, 
Father  of  social  consciousness  and  law; 
Christ,  whose  tremendous  heart 
Broke  to  restore  the  world's  exhausted  blood; 
Buddha,  God's  answer  to  the  groping  East, 
Whom  seekers  imitate; 
With  him  Mahomet,  battling  once  apart, — 
Authentic  both 

Yet  revelations  of  the  infinite  mood 
Our  fathers,  snug  in  one  tradition,  loathe, — 
And  nameless  more,  forgotten  now,  who  give 
Some  else  unknown  authority  to  live, 
Some    path   to    man's    else    night-encompassed 

fate. 
Fearful  of  them  no  more 

[132] 


As  knowing  Whom  they  represent, 

Nor  jealous  of  their  delegated  power, 

We  take  their  gifts,  their  certitude  and  peace 

Renewed  like  nature's  primal  element. 

Aye,  we  increase! 

All  unexpended  we,  not  old  or  worn 

But  vigorous  with  the  glad  intent  of  spring, 

The  world  redated  from  new  vision  born 

Which  they,  united,  loved,  could  only  bring. 


[133] 


14  DAY  USE 

RETURN  TO  DESK  FROM  WHICH  BORROWED 

LOAN  DEPT. 

RENEWALS  ONLY—TEL.  NO.  642-3405 
This  book  is  due  on  the  last  date  stamped  below,  or 

on  the  date  to  which  renewed. 
Renewed  books  are  subject  to  immediate  recall. 


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